


Wayward Pines and Buttercream Dahlias

by starespressos



Series: Pines and Dahlias [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anarchy, Artist Castiel, Baker Dean, Domestic Violence, First Kiss, Graffiti, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Mild Racism, Musician Castiel, Mutual Pining, Pining, Politics, Rebel Castiel, Rebellion, Resistance, deancaspinefest, mild homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 22:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9848447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starespressos/pseuds/starespressos
Summary: Dean Winchester has been waiting for impending death for almost a year and finally, things are getting real. Falling for the guy that threatened him was not on his agenda, but since it also could just be his brain trying to escape his home conditions, he's not going to make a big deal out of it.Meanwhile, Castiel Novak is proud to have made enough noise for people to start gossiping, but his endgame feels uncertain. What would make the corrupt, conservative elite really uncomfortable? How to deal with people trying to defame him and his crew? Also, why is the guy he's trying to save so damn afraid of him?





	1. Belekoy

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, Pinefest. I think I have given you my all. This is my 11-chapter 11 o'clock number (although I'm only getting started). I will include the link to that song on Chapter 7 in due time and I will be up for debating the artist forEVER seriously come talk to me
> 
> Uh, self-beta (I don't know enough people), be merciful, forgive for errors, remember you can also be nice
> 
> Thank you to my artist over here, over [HERE](http://purzelndesbaeumchen.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thank you for your patience, admin crew, I will repay it with cookies if you're coming for tea,
> 
> Thank you Tropefest Chat people for words, wtf, you helped with so many words,
> 
> Yes, of course I'm inspired by Misha's political work,
> 
> And finally, I don't own characters. But you knew that.

 

 

_They'd come for him._

 

Dean felt blood running thick in his throat and the fastening drum of a heartbeat felt long overdue now. It was certain they'd come - it'd been certain since that day at the parking lot. Now all he could do was listen to the eager sound of footsteps he'd anticipated to hear for 11 months and 12 days. They would only stay downstairs until they'd bump into the carpet-covered staircase and head up to discover him. This was how it was supposed to be; no running, no fighting back. They'd never missed a target and Dean knew better than to expect high of himself.

 

The air itself seemed to be holding its breath as Dean stayed frozen under his blanket. A stripe of light was sneaking into his bedroom through the cracked door and the _stomp-stomp-stomps_ of at least five people chimed in as well . Would _he_ be here tonight? Would _he_ be the one to come for him? And most of all - why did Dean want that to happen? Why had he had dreams of the guy for a long time now?

 

 

It had felt like a straight-forward situation at the time. Dean had accompanied his father to a local hardware store to fetch equipment for the gazebo they'd started working on and while carrying timber to the car, his eyes had caught something unusual. A man, cornered by three others in the shade of a large tree - and although Dean had stood quite a few paces away, he could still hear the low muttering that could only be the sound of _threats_. Leaving the wooden planks in the back of their gray pick-up, he'd headed towards the group.

 

The men, at this point on the verge of charging, seemed intimidating, but as Dean paced forward, he noticed they had a couple of years on him - tops. The victim was older, in his forties and wearing a pale yellow shirt. His face was a shade of sickish white and there was terror in his eyes that leveled with the one in the back of Dean's mind every time his father got too emotional while drinking.

 

”Hey!” Dean shouted and all four turned to face him. ”Cut it out!”

 

One of the guys waved the others with a minor, yet alarmingly dictatorial gesture and took a couple of steps forward. Even with the couple of yards still between them, Dean could see the gut-punching cornflower blue in his eyes.

 

”Hello”, the man said, his dark voice revealing both a question and a threat, ”what seems to be your problem?”

 

Dean couldn't find his voice - it felt like it'd just been sucked out of him. He was frightened, very much so, since these guys seemed like they were not to be messed with. There was more to it, though; the undertone of _damn this guy is cool_. From his messy hair to his worn out combat boots and a tasteful couple of patches in his worn out black jacket, everything screamed charisma.

 

”I think”, he tried to start then, ”I think...”

 

”Yes, go on”, the man said, tilting his head. Why was he concentrating like this? Why did this seem more like a genuine conversation than taunting?

 

”Uh. You shouldn't gang up on a guy like that. See, he's pissing himself soon.”

 

”So what you're saying”, his head was still tilted and now a squint put emphasis on it, ”is that you'd prefer to see a duel?”

 

Dean shook his head so fast he felt dizzy.

 

”No, no. I'd prefer you not bullying.”

 

The guy shrugged in a manner that seemed out of place, now letting his gaze slide behind Dean. John was arriving, Dean realized. His new cornflowered acquaintance turned around to get back to his friends.

 

”I'll let you know, Dean Winchester”, he said over his shoulder, ”my gang here will give someone a lesson on power dynamics soon enough and you will be grateful, OK? Now, have a good day.”

 

For the first couple of nights, Dean hadn't been able to sleep. After sleep deprivation had taken hold, he'd managed to drift off for an hour or two a night until he’d gradually slipped into his old routine of six to seven hours a night. Soon after, he'd started reading about incidents occurring all over town - first in the local newspaper and then a national one - fires, burglary, graffiti, general disorder, even acts of violence and even though media was uncertain on who was behind all of this, Dean thought it had to be Cornflower. It was a gang and it was a dangerous one, it was getting its footing around the damn _country_ and slowly increasing in both volume and severity of actions. This made Dean hope he'd been forgotten about; surely they had bigger fish to fry now? But eleven months and twelve days later he was proven wrong and now all he could do was to wait for the footsteps to get to him.

 

 

As Dean's pulse slowly started to regain a reasonable rate he realized it'd been a while now. It'd been a while since the door had been kicked in, a while since sounds and steps overwhelmed his every sense, a while since he thought he’s going to die any second. Now, everything was eerily quiet and for a moment he thought he'd just woken up from a nightmare and everything was as it was supposed to be. Getting up from his bed, he let his knitted socks slide him across the hardwood floor and then leaned towards the door.

 

But upon closer inspection, the sounds were certainly still there and the atmosphere sent shivers up Dean's spine. It was identical to the moment in the parking lot - quiet muttering, threatening tones, a message well delivered. But if it wasn't thrown his way, who was it for? He couldn't keep himself from walking through the door and tiptoeing to hug the railing of the staircase.

 

Nobody to be seen… Until there was.

 

He felt someone staring at him long before he actually heard the ”Hello, Dean” coming from behind. He twirled around so fast he couldn't focus for a second but it was not like he'd needed the affirmation - Cornflower was here, upstairs with him, they were alone and with no eyewitnesses and it was so, so scary -

 

No. No, it _should have been_ so scary. Instead it was overwhelming and weird in many ways, but freaked out was a feeling Dean’s stormy mess of a head didn’t provide him. There was a warmth in his chest, like breathing sunlight in, and for a moment he considered the possibility of some airborne toxic substances.

 

”Hey…?”, he answered. Cornflower smiled but didn't fill in the blank by introducing himself.

 

”It’s a pleasure to see you. Gazebo coming along pleasantly?”

 

Dean frowned. ”Been finished since summer, and I take you knew it since you came in from the back door.”

 

Cornflower nodded, deep in thought. Oh, there the fear was – after a momentary hideout, it started to carve out its way inside Dean's veins. This was a serious situation and the fact that he found the guy fascinating didn't mean his life would be spared. He grabbed the railing now behind his back and gripped it tight.

 

”I think you should go. My little brother's asleep in the other room and I wouldn’t wanna worry him.”

 

Good job. Now they might kill Sam, too.

 

”Don't worry, we'll be gone soon enough”, Cornflower said and stepped in closer - not to attack or to taunt, just to see Dean better. He seemed to be comfortable with awkward intimacy such as heavy-weight eye contact and getting a bit over the edges of Dean's personal space. Dean was in no place to complain, though - for all he knew, his liver would soon be introduced to a knife. ”And like I said, you'll be grateful.”

 

Dean shook his head. ”I doubt I'll be anything after you leave.”

 

Finally, the hint of a smile that Cornflower was wearing faded.

 

”What is it?”

 

Suddenly, Dean felt like sharing everything. From fears of tonight all the way back to his childhood with him sitting in class, getting yelled at for being late and he couldn't tell it was because dad had been drinking again he’d had to make sure the old man wouldn’t choke on his vomit. Then, getting yelled again for not being able to participate in gym class, because the bruises in his ribs he'd got from _falling_ were pounding pain in the beat of his heart and he was always silent, always always quiet like a good, brave young soldier should be, so at least his father wouldn't get into trouble. But just like in those days of primary school, Dean stayed silent now.

 

”'s nothing”, Dean finally growled. His voice showed the exact amount of restraint to match his mind. When he lifted his gaze to look into those endless lakes of a sky just after the sun had set, he felt short of breath. The expression Cornflower was wearing was _I know. I know your pain. I know everything._

 

”I've got no plans of hurting you”, the man said then, keeping his voice steady and articulate, ”We're not here to hurt _anyone_.”

 

Dean, although he should have felt uneasy and insecure, felt a sudden rush of safety flush over him. Wow, great. Just what he needed, a false sense of security. No, he wouldn’t let himself have it – he needed to fight it. Feeling self-contradictory to say the least, he slowly took a step to the side to get in front of Sam's bedroom door.

 

”Yeah?” he said. ”You sure about that? Sneaking in at- at night like this?”

 

His best intimidating voice sounded like a deflating balloon. Cornflower let his mouth twitch a little.

 

”Yes, Dean, I'm sure. I think I'm well aware of my own intentions.”

 

”Huh”, Dean sighed and nodded, trying to gesture towards the men still downstairs, ”can you be certain about them?”

 

As per request, a man with a beanie and a bright smile came halfway up the stairs.

 

”When you're ready”, he whispered. Cornflower lowered his chin without averting his eyes from Dean.

 

”I bid you farewell, then”, he said and nodded faintly, making sure his eye contact was intense enough to send shivers down Dean's spine, ”you let your brother sleep and I hope you'll be grateful soon enough.”

 

The words escaped Dean's mouth sooner than he'd have wanted. ”What if I'm not?”

 

”Then you'll find a way to tell us that.”

 

With that, the man turned around and disappeared downstairs. Dean let out a breath that burned his lungs, leaned backwards to take support from Sam's door and closed his eyes. His legs were trembling like he'd been running for miles.

 

*******

 

He wasn’t sure how he'd ended up back in his bed, but he woke up to familiar sunshine in his eyes anyway. He could hear his brother snooping behind the door, but for some reason he didn't come in. Usually at this time of day Sam would already jump up and down on his bed and tell him that coffee's already cold and Dean would never get anything done if he didn't bother getting up. Sam was the type to go jogging before sunrise; as to why, Dean had no idea. But it had a remarkable perk in form of an already brewed cup of coffee. With a groan aimed at his stiff back muscles, Dean got up, wrapped himself in a manly morning gown and opened the door. Sam came to a halt next to his door and greeted him with a fake resemblance of a smile.

 

”Good morning to you, too”, Dean said, walking right past him, ”what's up?”

 

Sam's voice was low. ”What happened here last night?”

 

”Not sure I follow”, Dean said. Walking past his brother's door and down the stairs caused his stomach to turn.

 

”Yeah, but the thing is, you do. You know exactly what I'm talking about.”

 

”Yeah?”

 

”Yeah, you do. But”, Sam had to stop talking because they were greeted by an angry John in the hallway. He proceeded once the man had slammed the front door behind him, ”but you don't want to tell me, which is fine, but… Okay, it's not fine, because you have to tell me. They were coming for me, Dean. What's up with that?”

 

Dean let his shoulders slump for a while and poured coffee into a cup.

 

”They weren't coming for you. I- the reason I can't tell you anything is that I don't know anything. But they weren't coming for you. I might have just overreacted on protecting you.”

 

”Who are these people?”

 

Sam was no longer frightened, now he was just curious. That was one of the best things about Dean's brother; quick to adjust and too curious for his own good. For an answer to this question, Dean gave out a phony grin.

 

”I can't really tell you. I don't know. I think they're the people that've been in the newspapers.”

 

Sam's eyes widened.

 

”Dean! What have you done?"

 

Dean took a long sip from the cup.

 

”I kind of put my nose where it didn't belong, to be honest. They said they'd 'make me grateful'”, air quotes, ”whatever that means. Wait - nothing's missing, right?”

 

”Not that I'm aware of, no”, Sam said and let himself drift off for a moment, ”unless you can count pieces of dad's sanity as missing.”

 

Dean let this sink in. Could it have been that they were after John and not him? Why would they, though? For all Dean knew, Cornflower only saw his father shortly in the parking lot all that time ago. That wouldn't be reason enough to come meet him, right? The thought of Cornflower keeping Dean busy while his pals could have a chat with John downstairs made Dean's anxiety rise to new levels and he did his best to cling onto any shred of actual information before letting himself loose in speculations. But if nothing was missing, that was a possibility, right? That would explain why John had left immediately after they came downstairs. Wait - there wasn't physical violence present, was there? Dean's father had left way too hastily for him to be able to pay attention to detail like that.

 

He decided he'd drop by at the construction site before heading to school.


	2. Declamando

Castiel made it to class in time. It was hardly a chore; he'd done sleepless nights before, only giving himself fifteen minutes of shuteye while his coffee was cooling down. He was greeted with an equally tired face in the back row - Chuck forced a smile for him. Sitting down to the free seat next to the guy, Castiel leaned his head back and let out a groan that couldn't even begin to fathom the amount of frustration in his blood.

 

”We'll get them”, Chuck said, patting Castiel's arm in a soothing, but tired motion. ”I said it before and I'm going to say it again; they can't outsmart Castiel Novak.”

 

Castiel shrugged.

 

”They seem smart enough to stay under the radar for now.”

 

Balthazar, who had been sitting in silence on the seat next to them, psst'ed.

 

”Think of it this way. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. We catching someone's attention means this is finally working.”

 

 

Castiel didn't feel too sure about that. While it was true that he was the one to put this in motion, things were catching fire way too fast. They were in for far more than they bargained for and he swore he'd never felt this _childish_.

 

Being framed for dangerous criminal acts was one thing. Getting involved with people face-to-face was a whole other matter. They'd been seen by Dean Winchester twice now, but at least, Castiel thought, his friends weren't in on his line of thought. He could take care of the more urgent matter first.

 

 

*******

 

Everything had started out kind of as a joke. They - Balthazar, Chuck, Charlie and Castiel - had been playing spin the bottle on Cas' apartment floor and trying to come up with more and more ridiculous dares. After a couple of beers and one naked run across the hallways, one ice cube swallowed whole, one outfit made out of random crates, two prank calls to teachers, and countless inedible items eaten later, things had gotten way deep. First, they had truth'ed out each other's crushes (or lack thereof), then future plans and finally, they had fallen silent and even though nobody asked, Castiel started to talk.

 

”I hate it all”, he said, his voice quiet and warm in the late-night darkness of the room, ”I hate how you can look at someone and know. You can lock eyes with a stranger in the bus and just hear the screaming inside of them; you just know how sad and tired they are. It's something I've always been able to see and I almost got used to it once but it's growing so fast, in so so huge brush strokes and I hate every single second of looking into someone's eyes and knowing how much pain they have to go through just to exist.”

 

Charlie touched her thigh lightly as a gesture for Castiel to use it as a pillow. He complied.

 

”It's something I have to go through, too, and maybe it's the reason I feel so sad. I just don't want anyone else to feel the same. I don't want anyone to feel as sad, as disliked, as bullied, as _outcast_ as I am. I want to help. And I know, I know, I could just go out there and talk to these people but that would be treating the symptoms and not the disease. I'm done seeing broken people around me. If I'd get my way, I'd make the conservative city hall sweat. I'd build up signal flames to declare my surroundings a safe haven for anyone broken. I'd make it known that there is resistance, however little it was. Just things that'd make tired, scared people of all kinds feel a little more at home in here.”

 

Silence had fallen for a long, long time and Castiel had almost fallen asleep when he'd heard Chuck's voice.

 

”We should do it, though.”

 

Balthazar snickered. ”Right. Move in together. Build a community that'd welcome anyone not feeling safe. Offer coffee. Go grab the mayor by the lapels and make him pay.”

 

”Not with violence”, Charlie said, ”but with some things that just generally make him think again before choosing another racist homophobe in the city hall.”

 

The atmosphere was light, but Chuck dismissed it.

 

”I'm serious. Castiel, you're serious. None of this is a bad idea.”

 

”You're drunk”, Castiel said and finally regained an upwards position, feeling sleepy and a bit wobbly, ”things just don't happen like that.”

 

”They don't if nobody does them”, Charlie shrugged.

 

Castiel had given this a moment to sink in, but the more he'd thought about it, the less _weird_ and _a joke_ it had sounded like. The feeling inside his chest that was always there felt like a little spark now. There _was_ something they could do to make things more bearable for someone. Right?

 

”Alright, y'all”, he'd stated, ”meet me here in the morning. If we all still consider then, I'll be the one to lead our troops into this doomed war and we can start looking for an apartment.”

 

 

Moving out of the school hall of residence had made them all feel light-headed. They had been friends for years, but actually living together seemed like such an opportunity to execute some of their wildest dreams. They'd had water balloon wars, glitter parties, hide-and-seek games in the dark and dance-offs with music that was too loud. But they’d had trouble finding a suitable apartment in the first place – so they decided to make their moving a statement of his own.

 

There was a house by the shore of the forest, just outskirts of town. Charlie immediately hacked her hands into some documents about the lot; it'd belonged to the town for a while now and they currently considered whether to demolish it or sell it for more than it's worth. It'd been vacant for longer than anyone could remember and after giving the premises a quick run-through, they'd agreed on squatting. Then, it'd been countless rides to all kinds of second hand stores, garbage sales and recycling centers - anything to make their newly found home cozy and _theirs_. After they opened their doors, respectfully with squatter flags on each side, for the intended use, Charlie advertised them just under the radar and with only the information that was absolutely necessary. In 11 months, they'd made some acquaintances and had a couple people stay over before moving on with their lives. Castiel felt pleased he'd been able to help and spread some warmth.

 

What caused more problems was putting things in motion around town. It wasn't exactly easy to break that mental wall that was built inside Castiel; his upbringing had been strict and any wrongdoing was prohibited. When they'd executed their first political act as a masterpiece painted in the corrupted financial manager's office wall as a protest to his decisions to aim tax funds towards a new parking hall instead of the local refugee center, Castiel's hands had been shaking and he had felt nauseated. It was only afterwards when reading the news that he'd felt that adrenaline kick. Ever since, every little act, be it occupying streets or forests, hacking into someone's computer to mess up some discriminatory paperwork, handing out design pins or painting more artwork in walls had made Castiel feel more at home in this town than ever before. The drum in his heart that could only be attained by _doing_ rather than _waiting_ had him feel more powerful than ever.

 

That was until the current events took place. A couple of weeks ago, the first double homicide happened; a senator had been killed first, his son a couple hours later. Their design pin was found on both bodies and apparently that was all that was needed - it felt like the whole city had exploded. Suddenly everyone was on the lookout for a ”suspicious group” of ”rascals” and Castiel had to give it to these supremacists; they really knew how to form alliances with each other and turn on weak minorities. In less than a week after the information of a group existing came to light, street patrols were a-go and everyone was told to ”be on guard” and ”not to travel alone in the dark”. Meanwhile, the other group kept on doing heinous acts of violence and crime; burglaries, beat-ups, death threats, vandalizing.

 

This worried Castiel for three reasons. Firstly, the way their copycats acted was the exact opposite of what Castiel's crew advocated; that went without saying. It was hard enough to stay incognito when they had to attend school and give explanations to their other friends of why they didn't really go outside despite invitations. If their identities were figured out, they would be framed for everything done by the other group, too - but since they rarely confronted people face-to-face during their resistance activities, that didn't make Castiel too nervous. There was really only one person who could get them thoroughly screwed and that brought him to Worrying Reason number 2: Dean Winchester.

 

The thought of his name made Castiel's heart flip and that certainly didn't make it any easier. Sure, he’d seen the young man and his brother around town, their father was kind of a social climber. John Winchester wasn’t a politician himself, but he did know his way around the ladder and knew enough people to be considered reputable if not appreciated by the city bigwigs. He got along with anyone despite his tendency to be a lone wolf and because he was a constructor, everyone was eager to call him in need of any kind of help. If it wasn’t so damn sad, Castiel would find it funny - how nobody saw past John’s ego and modest charm long enough to look at his kids. He’d known Dean was a victim of domestic violence the second he first laid his eyes on him. Needless to say, maybe, but it was the same moment he had irrevocably crushed on his Antonovka apple green eyes.

 

His initial thought had been to save the guy, of course. They'd met and talked twice after his decision; first on an unfortunate moment of their crew trying to get some answers from a judge who'd been, more often than not, bribed into shady convictions and the second time was them trying to talk sense into John Winchester - in a bit of a menacing way, sure, but they thought it effective. But now, those two meetings later, he wasn’t at all closer to saving Dean - instead, the poor guy seemed scared of him.

 

The third reason why this felt _off_ to say the least was that this action - these acts of resistance were making Castiel's days so full he'd forgotten about what wasn't there. When it became quiet at night, it sometimes returned; the feeling of emptiness that pestered him, that was prominent under his ribs, something more selfish than the acts towards equality and improving human rights to the less fortunate. He'd almost captured the emptiness and filled it when he played - he loved to create music that made his eardrums tickle with peace - but still, something had always been askew. Possibly, it could be pinned down as loneliness.

 

*******

 

With a sigh, Castiel got up from his seat realizing he’d missed the whole lecture, thanks to his his half-asleep brain. Yeah, saving Dean Winchester was definitely on the agenda. _And kissing him after that was_ _also on the agenda_ , his brain suggested and made him groan internally. _No, brain, no, you’re not allowed to do that._ So maybe the guy was sculpted from the most alluring heavenly creatures in his most secret dreams, but that didn’t mean he could just assume he’d be available for kissing or slow dancing in the common room of their house or biting his own lip to keep it quiet with Castiel kissing the freckled skin on his collarbones or-

 

“Anyone there?”

 

Balthazar snapped his fingers in front of Castiel’s face. He forced out a quick nod.

 

“Yeah. Here.”

 

At this point they’d already wandered into the cafeteria. Charlie bought everyone cold cappuccinos to wake them up and Chuck felt like ordering one of the cakes on display: the future MD’s of gastronomy sold their masterpieces in the school café to cover some costs of school life. This one was chocolate on white chocolate and mint cream. Castiel always gave a silent thank you-induced prayer at the baker's direction; they always seemed to read his cake desires to a T.

 

“So we need to come up with something better”, Charlie said, a straw in her mouth, “something grander that will help townspeople focus on what's important again.”

 

“If we try to guide too much, it’s _our_ direction they’re headed and let me just say it’s not gonna be kisses they’ll shoot at us”, Balthazar groaned.

 

Licking his spoon tentatively, Castiel gave this thought. Should they forget about it in hopes that the mess would clear itself up? Focus on what they do best?

 

“I might have a plan though”, Charlie said after a short silence. “But it's dangerous.”


	3. Taiyaki

Dean swiped sweat off his forehead and stepped back. Yeah, this was awesome. The swirls on his strawberry marshmallow cake looked delicate and the extra color, cornflower blue, felt only a little too tacky. He measured the cake with his eyes and waited for the teacher to show up - even though this was a class he'd been promised an A from already, he wanted his superior's approval for the swirls and the taste combination and above all, he wanted to have someone say he truly achieved something today.

 

It was because he didn't feel it at all right now. His father had been acting weird and angry at the construction site and he hadn't been able to get anything out of the man - just grunting and swearing. It was obvious he was angry at Dean and it felt like taking a hundred steps back between them. After all, it had been bearable with dad for weeks now. Afterwards, he'd walked to school feeling empty and like he was a disappointment - which, of course, wasn't that far from the truth. Him choosing to go study gastronomy instead of engineering or carpentry was a tough cookie for John to bite on. He'd been trusting his son to take over his construction business eventually, playing his part in the community that was this city. He'd claimed he could do that with cakes too - wedding cakes, birthday cakes, funeral cakes, celebratory cakes in general, greeting cakes, congratulationary cakes, all that. John had looked so disappointed for a moment Dean had thought his choice outed him from the closet where he waved his bisexuality flag with not much glee. Variations in sexuality were not John's favorite thing, either.

 

At least Sam had applied in an university to study architecture. That - like everything else in Sam, it seemed - pleased John. It was something to be proud of. Something masculine enough. Dean sighed and cleaned up the mess he’d made with baking. If only he’d be naïve enough to do as his father told him – but there was a spark inside him that said he deserved at least _something_.

 

After getting a round of applause from his teacher and letting him post pictures on the food blog of the class, he was sent off. Jo tagged along and gave Dean a questioning look as they took a seat on the chairs next to a wall of windows in the lobby.

 

“Something's up”, she said and gazed out the window, “you're quiet.”

 

“You know, I've never been one to talk that much.”

 

“Tch. This is different”, she scoffed and there was a certain edge of worry to her now, “I don't know how to ask this without insulting you.”

 

“Well, I think we're good enough friends for you to talk however you want to, grade school buddy.”

 

Her nose crinkled a bit.

 

“You'd think we'd have more friends now that we're in college and all.”

 

“You're drifting, Jo.”

 

“Oh, riiight. So I'm going to just ask. Are things bad at home? Is your dad drinking again?”

 

Dean shrugged and shook his head.

 

“We don't talk about that, I know”, Jo continued, “but if you think I'm stupid enough to overlook your sleepless nights and worry, you can think again. I'm not going to tell you what you should do, because that's out of my area of expertise, but please talk to me, ok?”

 

“Well, dad ain't drinking”, Dean's voice was too loud suddenly and he looked around to see how many people heard this, but the hallway was empty. Had classes started already? They had business math next and Dean couldn't miss it - it definitely wasn’t one of his A subjects. He did better in subjects where he could see the product in front of him - subjects he could touch with his hands.

 

“Dad ain't drinking”, he repeated in a quieter tone, “this is far more dangerous.”

 

“More dangerous than the imminent threat of alcohol poisoning?”

 

“A lot more.”

 

She took his hand and squeezed it a bit; a sign of encouragement. Dean bit his lip, considering.

 

“You've heard of the gang, right?”

 

Jo's eyes drifted out the window again as she tried to make the connection in her head.

 

“The criminal one? Yeah, I've read about it.”

 

“Well, seems like they've got a special bone to pick with me.”

 

Jo's eyebrows shot up. “ _What_?”

 

Making sure his tone stayed low, Dean explained the situation as briefly as possible. He, of course, left out the part where he didn't feel scared at all but fascinated by Cornflower's beautiful eyes and that serious and sensational aura he carried around him. While Jo considered his words, the bell rang.

 

During class Dean wanted to concentrate - in his defense, he really did. He could see Jo trying to get his attention in his peripheral vision, but since it was possible, he totally used the mask of pretending to be a good student to daydream. If things were to go his way, Cornflower would come pick him up from school and make him grateful for a pizza, for starters. Instead, he still had no clue on what he should be grateful for - home invasion? Vague half-sentences? An angry John? Squinting to see the blackboard better for no apparent reason, Dean felt his insides starting to turn. He forced the stardust-filled memory of Cornflower standing close to him further away to see the situation better. Now, what kind of people did these things? Why couldn't they be more specific, _at least a little?_ Were they going to return again? Suddenly, he felt not at all grateful but bothered with a bunch of new questions that made everything foggy. Would Sam be in danger some day? How many months until that?

 

He needed to know. And in that, Jo could help. He wrote the girl a note, scrunched it up and tossed it on her desk.

*******

 

After Dean had wrecked his head enough by double-entry bookkeeping with and without added VAT, Jo dragged him outside. He wasn't positive his school day was over yet, but after the information overload of last class he'd done anything to avoid more studies. Besides, he trusted this to be more important anyway. When they reached the gate, Jo dug a Dymo out of her backpack. Dean squinted.

 

“What?” Jo asked. “You stated you need to leave a note, and I've got the method. It's not like you can throw it at their desks. OK?”

 

“That's not yours, though.”

 

“Well boo-hoo. Are you going to tell?”

 

Dean shrugged.

 

“I'm venturing deeper into criminal territory than I ever wanted to.”

 

Jo's laugh was almost contagious as she started to type. Dean could make out the words “Hello!”, “please”, and “douchebag” from the swirly strip of paper exiting the little machine, but decided to let Jo have her way for now. They started towards the city hall, leaving little unimportant notes around the lamp posts and bus stops while Jo talked about her love life which was, as usual, non-existent.

 

It might have had something to do with them doing something about his stress and ungratefulness, but Dean felt himself getting lost in daydreams again. Trying to shake himself off Cornflower's full set of lips, he wondered what kept bringing him back into vague fantasies. Was it just because he was in a _gang_? Did danger do it for Dean? He'd always thought he wouldn't be that much of a cliché - that his first crush for a guy would be for a criminal. It seemed pathetic even as a thought. Maybe it'd pass when they met again. Maybe Dean would see Cornflower in broad daylight and notice he wasn't all that.

 

 _Good going, Winchester_ , Dean told himself, _you've already seen him in daylight and that's how he got the nickname. His perfectly blue eyes caught your attention and you haven't been able to break free since._

 

His stomach turned for the thousandth time and he realized he was missing the man. He was missing the feeling he got in his chest when all of Cornflower's attention was on him - how he concentrated, curved his lips slightly, tilted his head, listened like Dean was important. Listened like everything he said meant something grand for him. Like he mattered.

 

But more. He missed more. He missed things he had no clue about. Before his thoughts wandered further, he felt Jo's intensive stare on his face.

 

“Whaddup?”

 

Dean shook his head.

 

“Nothing really. I just… I want this to make some sense.”

 

“Well, get writing then”, she sighed and handed the Dymo over. Dean was about to complain about his lack of imagination, but the words started flowing out of his fingertips immediately.

 

“My mind tastes like marshmallow right now.”

“I have no idea what to type.”

“I like Kansas. - The band, not the state - OK, the state too, sure”

“Fishing is prohibited on this bridge”

“I accidentally fried a bread once.”

 **“** **Wake up, you idiots! Whatever made you think that money was so valuable?”**

“I suck at math but can remember the 39 first digits of pi”

“Sale on isle five of this store”

 

These were put on various surfaces along many, many others. Then, with great hesitation, he typed out “I'm not grateful yet” and smashed it on a sign that said “No swimming in fountain”.

 

With a sigh, he decided to write one more, but this one he was sure to keep safe from Jo's eyes.

 

“I need you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bolded text is a quote by Vonnegut.


	4. Marcia

Charlie read while typing.

 

“I'm so done w/ dis, exclamation point, exclamation point, exclamation point. I'm so fus-ta-ted that every1 is becoming more & more tolerant and my tax money has to giv up rights to walk around in peace. I want in @ the action!!”

 

Castiel cringed and walked to the window. It was already getting dark; they could well wait until tomorrow, but since their mind was set on getting this over with as soon as possible, their plan took place today. Charlie was right, though; it was dangerous.

 

“I got many ideas I wud like to talk about with some1”, Charlie continued, “but dis ain't the spot. If you up for meeting, I'll wait @ the clock of basketball field at midnite. Bring domestic beer plz.”

 

“That'll do”, Chuck sighed, “although it’d take an idiot not to see past the obvious trap that this is.”

 

“If we make it past this evening somewhat alive, I promise you guys I want a party”, Balthazar said and Castiel could hear the tenseness in his voice, too. This was odd. He was never the type to worry. Maybe that was the reason that made Castiel nod.

 

“You'll get a party. We can finally invite people and make up for all those times they invited us somewhere and we didn't go.”

 

“People are worried about me already”, Chuck laughed and dug out his phone, “I'm getting all these messages that I should seek help if I'm too depressed to get up in the morning.”

 

“Yeah, well, you've been missing school too”, Charlie said, “maybe after we solve this, we can take a little break?”

 

“They don't get breaks”, Castiel said and vaguely remembered this being a quote from someone or something, “why should we?”

 

“What's that mean? We fight the losing fight forever?”

 

Balthazar's words darkened the atmosphere faster than anyone would've anticipated. Chuck cleared his throat and pretended to be concentrating on his phone now - suddenly all those ignored messages were to be answered promptly. Charlie leaned closer to the laptop and squinted, because apparently racist town forums were also more interesting than focusing on what was going on in the room.

 

“No”, Castiel whispered and finally faced his friends, “no, Balthazar. You don't get to say that. You don't get to decide what's the losing side. You don't get to say resistance and helping out people in need is a losing battle. Okay, there's always going to be people who disagree with us. There's always going to be those idiots who think their privilege or anxiousness is something worth more than others' human rights. There's always going to be people who believe in the status quo and stories that are centuries older than them. But you don't get to decide for all of us that they're going to win. Nothing changes without change and if we are the resistance”, he nodded at their general direction, “you don't get to say we failed before we even saw this through.”

 

There was a brief moment of silence in which Charlie almost clapped her hands, but decided it was better to be an adult now.

 

“I believe in us”, she said then, “I believe in all of us and most of all in you, Castiel. I know we're going to do great eventually.”

 

“It just wouldn't hurt to have some support from somewhere”, Balthazar said and gazed upwards as a gesture of from where he'd like the help to come from.

 

“What, angels?” Chuck asked. His eyes were finally off the phone screen.

 

“Well, that would of course be the best, but since there's still a lot up to debate on that subject, I'm thinking something else up there - you know, city hall type of up. It would be nice to know someone up on the ladder has our back.”

 

“I would be cool if we had more people here”, Chuck admitted, nodding towards the general direction of the apartment, “it's been a while since we had anyone here. If we have people, like that time we had that refugee family, it really… It gave that sense that you’re achieving something and actually getting your head into this.”

 

“We can go scout a little tonight after we get someone on this racist hook”, Charlie said, “do you have any more plans for the Winchester, Castiel?”

 

Castiel squinted and focused on the floorboards for a while to make it seem like he'd have to think about it instead of letting it show that Winchester was the only person always in his mind. However, the words he managed out were still almost too strong.

 

“Not for the daddy, but if I haven't made this clear before, I'll do it now; I'm feeling really strongly about how we should help out Dean. Sam's not getting beaten, but Dean wouldn't go anywhere without him so he'd have to come along too. Besides, who knows, maybe he'd be the next in line for John to take his frustrations out on. If I can make a suggestion, and I will do that even if I couldn't, I'd say Sam and Dean would be the next one to profit from our safe space. That is, unless we managed to scare dad enough to stop beating them up.”

 

“Doubt that”, Balthazar said and got up from where he had been seated on the floor, “and now can we go do something? I'm so tired I might fall asleep.”

 

*******

 

After visiting a couple of stores just for the heck of it, they arrived at the park and Castiel took his place under the clock pole. Ten to midnight, he had enough time to consider this being the most idiotic plan in the history of mankind… Ever. It was highly unlikely anyone'd even had enough time to see their message on the city conversation board, and far more unlikely someone would be stupid enough to come meet a racist stranger in the middle of the night. Besides, the odds of someone showing up AND belonging to the group they were looking for were second to none. At best, they'd be given some directions on where to go next.

 

And surely enough, at midnight exactly Castiel saw two people walking up to him, both carrying plastic bags that could only contain domestic beer. A man, roughly his age but definitely not from the college, smiled broadly upon offering his hand for Castiel to shake.

 

“Hello, brother”, he said, still grinning, “nice of you to reach out.”

 

Castiel felt sick to his core thinking about the situation he was in right now. These people stood for things he hated more than anything. Also, he hated that he was secure only because of his skin color and because he was hiding his sexual orientation. Not all people were that lucky and would then be annihilated by these people - or people similar to these.

 

“Nice, indeed”, he finally said, “I'm actually really nervous right now. I didn't know if anyone had time to see that message, since I only put it up a couple of hours ago.”

 

“There's people who have nothing better to do than surf convos”, the other man said and because Castiel only now looked directly at him, he kind of jumped a bit - the guy looked out of his league -type of scary. Castiel had never wanted to be home as much as he did right now.

 

“And of course, there's people like us, too.”

 

“What kind of people… What kind of people are you, then?”

 

“Name's Cooper”, the first guy said and nodded at the other one, “that's Bill. We should take a walk together.”

 

Cooper looked around for a bit as if he knew Castiel's friends were hiding nearby.

 

“Sure, let's”, Castiel said and tried to sound as careless as possible, “my name's Jimmy.”

 

“Cool”, Cooper said and started towards the exit of the park, “let's go buy some groceries. If you prove yourself, we'll let you in on something.”

 

 

Cooper and Bill seemed young and easy-going, but there was something in them that Castiel couldn't put his finger on - like an aura of ill omens. They talked about ice hockey, sports in general, about Bill's girlfriend and also asked quite a bit of questions about Castiel; his past, his current status, his circle of friends. No serious subjects were touched and while they were choosing bread Castiel thought whether they'd end up stealing something or harassing someone on the way back, because this sure didn't feel like an evaluative interrogation of “proving oneself”. He recruited all his acting skills when some foreigners walked past and promised himself to find someone to help immediately after tonight. Also, maybe he could forgive himself because this was for the greater good.

 

Castiel's mind hadn't always been this clear about right and wrong. He grew up in a religious family, went to a small town school and was generally interested in all subjects. He wanted to be friends with everyone but some of the older boys he knew from Sunday school said he'd be better off with them and the people they chose to be his friends. Sooner or later most of Castiel's playground group consisted of fair-skinned people from well off religious families and thinking back as a grown-up, his set of relationships was like a plate with different brands of wheat bread, un-toasted.

 

Spending most of his vulnerable years in those circumstances had left Castiel under the false impression that those people were the norm and variations were rare. He was a good Christian, though, never thinking bad about the less fortunate; her parents simply never, even after primary school, introduced him to variations in humans or their ways of living. He had no concept of what was racist and what was a thing people just tended to do or say about different people. This lead into problems with people coming from different circumstances. What troubled Castiel most was that he grew up believing he'd always form his most important relationships with people that were similar to him, when in reality he was born to always stand out. After realizing he'd never been heterosexual he had to plummet through his whole ethical base and reform it - and it wasn't a simple task.

 

 

“I think you're a nice guy”, Bill said and it took a while for Castiel to realize he was talking to him now, “I think there's nothing you're hiding from us.”

 

“I don't know what there is to hide”, he answered, “like I said, I just want to hang out with people who are similar to me. I don't really like how things are turning out and I need group support right now.”

 

“I feel you there”, Cooper nodded with a dry laugh.

 

“We could take him up to the headquarters”, Bill said.

 

“Nah, I need my sleep. Anyway, we're working for someone and that someone is recruiting. If you'd like to, you know, keep the streets safe with us, I think you'd qualify”, Cooper explained and Castiel couldn't help noticing the shakiness of his voice. Was he reaching over his lines of authority right now?

 

“I would love to know more about that”, he said.

 

“We could give you the details tomorrow. Same time, same place?”

 

“Nah, let's meet earlier”, Bill chimed in, “I've got that family trip the day after. How about as early as seven? Would that do?”

 

“Sure”, Castiel shrugged and tried to sound calm. Seriously, was he about to meet these people again? If he was to be trusted, why wouldn't they give him their numbers? And above all, why did he get involved in Charlie's stupid plan?

 

 


	5. Vol-au-vent

The next morning, as Dean was doing some haphazard morning stretches in home economics class, he was greeted by a face he'd never seen before. A girl with a beaming smile and red hair emerged from the door, jumping to have a seat on the counter Dean was supposed to bake today's cake on. This was yet to form into a good or a bad day for Dean, but at least she looked easy enough to deal with.

 

“You're the guy that makes the cakes, right?” she asked. “For the cafeteria?”

 

“Oh, there's plenty of guys making cakes for the cafeteria”, Dean said, making a dismissive gesture with his hand. What was she up to? 

 

“But you're the best, I've heard. I bet you were the one to do the mint chocolate thing the other day, hm?”

 

“Yeah, that was one of my doings. Not the best one, though.”

 

“Well. I need your expertise.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“I'm throwing this little party to celebrate someone's bravery, and I would like to include a cake made by you. Your cakes are amazing and I would like you to make one for us. I'll even pay you.”

 

Dean considered this for a moment and shrugged.

 

“Sure. I don't know if my apprentice quality is enough to work professionally yet, but extra income is always welcome.”

 

“Yay!” the girl clapped her hands with bubbling enthusiasm and jumped down from the counter.

 

“My name's Charlie. Charlie Bradbury. I live with some friends just outskirts of town. Do you have a car? It's better to bring the cake in a car. As far as I'm aware, nobody's allergic to anything. You can surprise us, we've been eating your cakes at the cafeteria for a long time now.”

 

“You're babbling”, Dean said, but couldn't help his smile, “My name's Dean.”

 

“Alright, Dean”, Charlie's eyes shot to the ceiling for a while, like she was trying to remember some detail that slipped away too quickly. She shrugged to herself then, grabbed Dean's arm, clicked a pen open and wrote down some numbers, “I'm leaving my number here. Ask for the address via WhatsApp or something, I'm having classes until four so don't think I've forgotten about you if I don't answer before that. And oh! Come by and talk to me anytime. I don't want the best cake maker in the world to feel left out.”

 

Charlie waved, grinned once more and left the room. In Dean's opinion she seemed to be in a constant state of haste.

*******

 

Because now his cake had to make sense, he'd have to come up with a special flavor and maybe even a theme. He started to mix ingredients for red velvet but decided to go deep blue instead, shaking his head vigorously to keep himself distracted. Royal blue color spun into the batter in mesmerizing swirls and Dean decided to go for coconut and vanilla fudge for tastes; simple enough, but easy to make so good it'd make people moan. While waiting for the cake to bake, he leaned against the counter and closed his eyes for a moment.

 

Okay, he had to admit, he really, really wanted Cornflower to see those notes he left. It was up to debate whether he'd be able to decipher those were from Dean, and that he thought himself important enough for him anyway was a bit of a stretch, but still - he wanted to believe there was at least a chance. A chance for that conversation line to open up again. A chance to solve things out. A chance…. A chan c e to make him smile. A chance for Cornflower to be thinking about Dean, even for a moment. He knew very well he'd just been a pit stop along many other ones, but no harm in dreaming, right?

 

As for the pit stop, Dean still had no clue what the gang was doing in his place. He'd definitely not got any wiser last night when his father was home, got drunk and yelled at him - he was spared of any punches because “you'd be ungrateful enough to not appreciate my parenting”, as John so delicately put it. Dean wanted to ask for details, but valued his face more. As he'd sprawled on his bed unable to sleep he'd  given it more thought.  What if, for some reason, John was involved in something that the gang was not satisfied with? If they were there to threaten his father to stay away from things that weren't his business, they had another thing coming for them. If John had his mind set on something, there was no changing it.  Then, his mind had wandered into Cornflower's eyes again, especially how they'd look like in the morning, were they for some reason waking up in the same bed together -

 

The thought  still made Dean blush so hard he had to look around although he knew he was alone  in class . He'd crushed on people before but this seemed more and more serious with each passing moment. What the heck was going on here? Why couldn't he just… Shake free? For now, though, he had to shake his cake free from the oven and that took his mind off the man _ that was still very much a stranger, please remember that, you idiot _ , _ no point in drooling over his eyes or that stupid mouth that curved into a little smile when he was intrigued by something and it could have been Dean that intrigued him that much but no such luck, possibly he was thinking about a lovely wife back home and  _ OK, seriously, time for that cake. Dean popped it into the countertop and made fanning motions with his palms as if that would cool it down sooner and then decided to go for the icing instead. Since he put the coconut on the cake batter, he decided to make a vanilla fudge mousse to put in between layers, then solidify the top with buttercream and save a hint more coconut for the whipped cream trim. No swirls today - thoughts of a possible wife suddenly had him anxious and desperate for attention from someone who'd never give it to him.

*******

 

It felt as if he'd left all his mind to home ec class fridge with the cake - he felt done. He wanted to stay home and wallow in his patheticity for a while, then get over it and back to his day-to-day life. John had other ideas. He was fixing his tie in the hallway, dressed in a full-on suit.

 

“Hello, son”, he said, an ominous smile in his eyes, “good for you to arrive. We're heading out soon. Go get changed.”

 

Since this was almost John in a good mood, Dean didn't bother ruining it with asking questions. Instead, he hopped the stairs up and charged into Sam's room, where his brother was having serious trouble with suit pants he'd outgrown in two months.

 

“There must be a couple of inches in the hem”, Sam groaned, practically ripping out his luscious mane, “there must be.”

 

Dean raised his eyebrows but took the scissors in his hands nonetheless. This was nothing out of the ordinary; Sam had been growing rapidly since he was born. Crouching with a mild grunt, Dean examined the hem. 

 

“There might be a couple more, but soon it'll be shopping time. Stop growing, you moose.”

 

Sam rolled his eyes and waited patiently for Dean to rip the seams with a scissor blade. 

 

“Can't exactly help it, you heartless monster.”

 

Dean straightened his posture and placed the scissors on top of the cabinet next to him.

 

“So, what's the big idea? Where we headed?”

 

“It's opening night at the swimming hall”, Sam said, now searching for a bowtie maybe, “you- you didn't let dad know you didn't remember, right?”

 

“Wouldn't dream of it”, Dean grinned solemnly. “I guess I need to go dress up too.”

 

 

The Grand Swimming Hall Project was John Winchester's masterpiece. Fire had generously fed on the previous one leaving it beyond repair, and since the town was already investing in some reparations of parks and roads they had to come up with a low-budget solution. John had, per his reputation, been chosen as head constructor immediately and he'd collected some funds via BBQ parties and janitor-type gigs. After collecting an impressive amount of free labor, too, he'd built a whole monument as a community effort. Now, three and a half years later, it was time for the opening ceremony. 

 

Standing next to his father, gracefully missing each and every word he said, Dean let his gaze circle the ground in front of them. They were getting looks of approval,  _ admiration  _ even, and it had long since stopped making Dean sick in his guts. It was important for John to have this - a perfect, if a little broken, family beside him, cheering him on.  _ This is such a cliché _ , Dean thought to himself while swallowing a yawn, _ him being forced into this kind of a life while crushing on a bad boy.  _ He had to admit, he was hoping Cornflower would make an entrance here tonight. What would be the point, though? If he wasn't aiming for a straight up  kamikaze attack, there was nothing for him here. 

 

John kept on talking about group effort and brought up funny memories and anecdotes from the road. Sam was swaying beside Dean, trying to catch his attention to point out something slightly derogatory but still funny. Before he could react, though, John fell silent and the crowd cheered. Oh, time to head inside to admire the architecture, then.

 

Gym was a mirror-walled place for dying dreams, but apparently it was impressive enough to deserve praise from multiple people coming to talk to John. Dean felt it necessary to point out that they'd had a professional architect working on the design, since John felt like taking all credit. It was the same with hallways, locker rooms and the cafeteria, until they finally landed inside the main room including the swimming pool.

 

Dean would have liked to own the situation on tape, to be honest. First, there was the muttering approval of the surprise in the pool; then, a more confused mutter from the conservatives and finally, straight-up gasping when the whole picture came into focus. Without further consideration, Dean slid from his slot next to John, circled across the hall and took in the sight. 

 

It was the moon. A giant, glowing moon, painted pearly white, pink and violet, on the bottom of the pool so detailed it must have taken ages. It was situated on the right and next to it, sliding from the left, was black substance that almost seemed to move - oil, smearing the side of the pearl and making it crack and blood leak out of it. There was some lighter gray further in the left and if Dean squinted, he could almost make out letters. The hall didn't have the smell of paint anymore; this had been here for a while. 

 

Someone was already in the pool, trying the side of the moon out. 

 

“It's dry”, he yelled, his voice a shaky echo across the hall. He walked towards the gray paint before talking again. “And these… these are names.”

 

“Names? The heck you on about?” John asked. His mouth was a thin line of looming thunderstorm up ahead, Dean could see it all the way across the room. In a best case scenario, he'd be able to get out of the house before that. 

 

“Names of… Of women? No, there's men too.”

 

Dean watched his father go down the ladder to join the man now reading names out loud. There was a sense of dread on the back of his throat that he couldn't quite place - of course he was afraid of what would happen tonight behind closed doors, but also  _ more _ . This artwork made him uncomfortable. There were textures of skin on the pearl-moon, it bled like actual skin - the names spoken out loud like a threat or an incantation - the suffocating black of the oil… It made him nauseous. Before turning around to avoid confronting this longer, he could make out a signature; a complete mess of letters after a C. 

 

 

At some point, Sam and John found Dean standing on the cafeteria, looking out of the window. 

 

“I don't know what disappoints me more”, John sighed upon walking up to him, “that you ran away or that I found you.”

 

Sam let out a laugh of confused amusement. Dean looked at John with arrogant, groundless self-assurance, his head held high - a sign for John to please shut up in front of Sam, who was still blissfully unaware of his father's bad ways; a combination of Dean's overprotectiveness and John's attempts on getting it right the second time. John narrowed his eyes at Dean, but took the hint. With a grunt, he was off.

 

Dean could swear he'd never been on a car ride that was as cold. It was air feeling like cold steel, hard to inhale and it was the knowing, more than the assuming, of hell breaking loose later. It was silence after knowing for certain you'd drown and just  staying still underwater. It was the sound between the beeps of a danger warning.

 

And as if to prove the night could take one more gut-wrenching turn, it did. While waiting for the light to change, Dean absently looked out the window to see two people walking, arms thrown across each other, laughing. She recognized the red waves of Charlie Bradbury, and next to her - next to her was Cornflower, in all his badged, charismatic glory. Dean felt his teeth drill into his lower lip and promised, for his first act tomorrow morning, to  _ demolish  _ the damn cake.

 


	6. Moto

Castiel was happy. He'd been able to spend another successful hour with Bill and Cooper, plus they'd talked more about what kind of things the  men were involved in. Turned out they were strictly involved in exactly what Castiel and the crew had been hunting for - the group called  themself the Stitches (for a reason nobody cared to explain to him, but in Castiel's opinion it was an abomination to have a gang with a name like that - it made them sound like a boy band) and their primary objective was to soothe out the resistance. The city had always been a safe haven for all-American families and they'd prefer to keep it that way. Resistance had caused them trouble; some of the Stitches members were involved in politics and it was a tough job cleaning up the mess those anarchist vandals left behind. Castiel bit his tongue so he wouldn't blurt out anything that would lead them towards his true motives of suddenly befriending them, but he wondered. Of course everyone had a human right to protect what's theirs, but what gave them the right to drive other people unfitting their criteria to the brink of extinction? Cooper had gone as far as to say “The quality of a community is measured by how they treat their weakest members” and Castiel had almost been unable to control himself from asking why'd this apply only to the people who are privileged in birth when it came to race or orientation or lack of disability. 

 

Murder was also always unforgettable in Castiel's books - although in his weakest moments he thought some people, say, John Winchester for example, would be better off dead and unable to hurt Dean anymore. Cooper had obviously wanted to tell more about how they'd come up with killing these people and how smart it was of them to drop resistance design badges on the bodies, but Bill was strict on that. “No point of bragging over spilled milk”, he'd said. There was still plenty more to be known before they could sneak a confrontation at their headquarters, but in Castiel's mind, they were off to a great start. He'd also already dug out a confession of murder. That was worth a lot. 

 

 

While walking across the bridge on his way home, Castiel's eye caught a note on the railing written with a portable typewriter - a label printer of sorts.  _ “Fishing is prohibited on this bridge _ ”, it stated. A matter-of-fact note, although pointless; both because it was written with a label printer and because there was a large sign saying the same right next to it. Now what was this about? Intrigued, Castiel ran his fingers on top of the raised letters as if reading braille, appreciating the note for a second before continuing. It was a while since he last wrote something as a note for someone else to find - but a label printer? That was a nice change in town.

 

Before long, he ran across another sign that confirmed his speculations; these were the work of someone who had something to say. This was much more personal, saying the writer knew the 39 first digits of pi. What was the initial message, though? Just make noise? Thinking about a person who could both state the obvious, remember numbers and - another note - quote Vonnegut, possibly from memory and not Google, Castiel kept on walking. Finally, his treasure hunt ended him in the park. His new stranger friend said there was a sale on the local store and something about bread and at last, _ at last  _ there was something Castiel could put his finger on… 

 

At the fountain, in a note that said “No Swimming”, was a note. The letters were almost shy on this one, not firmly pressed, as if each movement was an effort after long hesitation. The message was clear, though: “I'm not grateful yet.” Even though a part of him had anticipated something like this, Castiel gasped, feeling his cheeks redden. He held out his hand and stroked the letters again; not at all as raised. Holding onto the note for a while, he pictured Dean walking across town, humming those digits of pi to himself, thinking about how Castiel had let him down. He probably still had no idea why they even were at his place. No news had been heard of John, but no surprises there; their methods had been kind so far. It was not like they, at any point, planned on hurting the man, but some more drastic measures needed to take shape soon. If Castiel had his way with things, John would already have apologized to Dean and Sam and signed up to an institute to help him with both his alcohol problem and his abusive behavior. But, as this note gently put it, nothing had improved yet. 

 

Castiel sighed out of sudden exhaustion. How would Dean feel if he were to just walk in their house right now, ask him and Sam join him and have them at their community center? Would he object? Right now, that seemed like the easiest solution. Before getting further into this possibility, Castiel realized Dean still had no clue about their true motive. For all he knew, they were after his family for no other reason than to taunt or bully. Besides, was this going too far? Castiel shook his head and sat on the fountain ledge for a while. Was his judgment on actions already blurred by _ a crush _ ? Earlier in his life, he wouldn't even have considered something like snatching people out of their house before consulting his crew. Was his mother hen nature already echoing in empty nest feelings, since it'd been a while since anyone stayed over? 

 

Heck… Earlier in his life, he would never had crushed so hard. But things had changed and now all he could do was to act as if this meant nothing more than just that - a crush. No grand, whipped cream mocha latte capital  L love, just a crush that could make his days brighter but not affect his everyday choices. With better resolve, he got onto his feet. Since Dean did reach out, however, he should be rewarded. He grabbed the permanent marker mostly available in all his pockets and walked over to the side of the market square. Posters colored this cream-colored brick wall like a dadaist mosaic piece and in between them, one more label printer note stood out. 

“I need you.”

 

Simple as that, Dean had just made Castiel's stomach do multiple somersaults. Quickly, he touched this text too; to prove to himself it was real, to try and absorb the exact feeling that Dean was harboring as he'd written this. This wasn't a message to all of them - Dean had never met anyone else but him. This was a heart to heart, one-to-one, this was  _ Castiel and Dean _ . And Dean missed him. Without reading too much into anything at this point, Castiel bit his tongue to still his beating heart and wrote on a poster.

*******

 

Charlie was the only one home as Castiel stepped in from the front door. The eardrum-piercing sound of an antique centrifuge could be heard from the bathroom. That's right, Castiel thought to himself, there was a party coming up and all. Charlie would make it known that she was the only one around here doing anything and somehow she'd wiggle out of a month's dish washing by  some brilliant guilt trips . Wouldn't be the first time, or the last.

 

With this in mind, Castiel entered the living room. Instead of meeting a frustrated Charlie, he found a thoughtful - no, a sad, almost  _ somber  _ one. Sitting down next to the girl on the chipped-white windowsill, Castiel squinted.

 

“Oh don't mind me”, Charlie blurted out, “I'm invisible.”

 

“Is something the matter?”

 

She met his eyes, but only briefly. Then she shrugged.

 

“Well, you tell me, mister.”

 

“What's going on?”

 

She shrugged again, then grabbed a pen in her fingers and fidgeted away.

 

“I wrote down reasons why Dean Winchester takes priority”, she started then, “all logical good reasons and some a bit far-fetched. You see… There's like a ton of reasons, don't take me wrong OK? But there are no reasons that mean it's _exclusively_ gotta be him. There's younger kids out there with similar issues.”

 

Castiel sighed and averted Charlie's gaze. It was starting to rain outside the window. Darkness had fallen somewhere on the way home.

 

“And I know we're saving him, Castiel. I'm not an idiot. He needs us and his little brother needs us and the dad needs a slap in the face, repeated _infinitum_. But I just…”

 

“You keep on trailing off, Charlie. You need to tell me what's wrong. What are you worried about?”

 

The pen fell somewhere into the abyss below, so Charlie tugged her hands into the sleeves of her hoodie.

 

“We're not in trouble, are we? You're not… This Dean kid, he hasn't given you a hard time, right? We are not gonna get him here to shut him up? I mean… You seem so obsessed with the guy and nobody else knows shit about him.”

 

Trailing his fingertips along the cold surface of the window, Castiel smiled to himself.

 

“No, you're not in trouble. I would never involve you in anything troublesome without letting you know. We're family, Charlie.”

 

She fell quiet, obviously contemplating, and followed Castiel's finger along the glass.

 

“And I want to press this more; I think we need to save them. I mean, I met Dean the other day and he's a sweetheart, he is. I just need to be sure we're not bringing anything with them.”

 

“What makes you think so?”

 

“All our lodgers so far have been strangers, more or less. Winchesters are a high profile family and John will make a humongous deal out of it. We're gonna have to dodge a lot. I want to do this but I'm -”

 

“Scared?”

 

“Yeah. Scared. I don't know if we have the resources to be working in this magnitude.”

 

“Of course we don't”, Castiel said and forced his eyes to focus on his friend, “but I can no longer wait until we have.”

 

Charlie nodded. “Sorry. I've been alone all day and worried about you all. So I went online.”

 

Castiel chuckled and squeezed her elbow lightly. “And what have we talked about googling statistics?”

 

This wasn't the first time Charlie had gotten anxious. It was like her brain would shut down all voice of reason when she had too much time for herself. She'd then end up finding information on Internet; there had been some of their crew constantly online for months now. Sightings, addresses, hate speech and of course, also encouragement - but Charlie had her ways of shutting everything positive down in her moments of self-deprecating obsession. She'd eventually end up  reading statistics on gang deaths and  analyze them too much , proclaim them all dead within the next two weeks and make everyone both upset and nervous. It wouldn't be too bad, though. She'd just have to be guided out of there and it'd be fine. 

 

There was some point to her speech, Castiel had to admit that. Winchesters would draw a lot of attention to them. Even though he returned Dean's message in his public IRL board, it was unlikely anything would change. Dean would still be afraid of them and next time they bumped into each other, accidentally or not, he might call the cops. Well, there was not much Castiel could do right now. The ball was in Dean's court. 

 

With a stretch and a hop, he was off the windowsill.

 

“I would love to know what you wrote down”, he said, making it his mission to lighten up the mood. “I bet you have all kinds of reasons.”

 

Charlie gestured towards the coffee table made of pallets, on which a paper block was neatly put. Castiel let out a sound that sounded an awful lot like giggling.

 

“There's like… Two pages of this”, he said, scrutinizing. “Dean Winchester. _A valuable asset. Someone to befriend just to mess with the elite_. Wow, this is really dignified, Charlie.”

 

“There's more, too”, she groaned, now sounding a lot more like herself. “Most of it is loving towards him.”

 

“ _Hot-ish piece of ass_. Really?”

 

“That's more loving, don't you agree?”

 

Castiel laughed, straightening his posture. “I beg to differ.”

 

He started towards the kitchen, shaking his head. Before he could reach the fridge, there was an audible gasp from behind him. He turned around to face Charlie again - but now, her face was half hidden behind her hands and her eyes were sparkling like a Chinese New Year parade.

 

“What is it?” 

 

“Castiel! You're _in love_ with the guy!”

 


	7. Profiterole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I promised, [here's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u-nFIo4f71g) the song.

Dean didn't even want to get up. It was like the whole world had collided in one giant mushroom cloud-filled dystopian fantasy. He heard the fallout rain outside, his room was as dark as if it was night - but the clock was displayed in a ballet-dance formation of fifteen-to-two.

 

Last night, everything had changed. As they'd arrived home, there was a letter waiting - an official letter, smacked right in the middle of the table. Next to it, there had been Ellen Harvelle - a friend of theirs, Jo's mother and a bartender at the bar next to the post office. Her face was beaming with joy which, in hindsight, almost lifted the mood after the swimming pool incident. Dean had figured out long ago that John had a sweet spot for the lovely woman, but like the wuss he was, he'd never advance. Instead, it was awkward flirting and embarrassingly clumsy jokes.

 

Ellen came bearing news. She'd served a post clerk and found out that the letters from most universities had arrived and would be sent out next week; a chore for any post office really, but their budget had been cut by the management not two months ago and apparently upcoming stress required some alcohol consumption. Ellen, on the other hand, was very well aware of Sam Winchester being nervous about his results and happily obliged to take one letter off the clerk's hands. Apparently, it was out of boundaries to act like that in a post office, but what wouldn't a person do for another round of beer? And eventually they had arrived here, the woman and her letter, using the spare key John had given her in a spur-of-the-moment emotional storm of tenderness.

 

It wouldn't have been necessary for Sam to stress out in the first place - the boy was a genius. Ellen's behavior of sunlight-colored happiness was the final straw; she'd made deductions based on the thickness of the letter. And after her assumptions had been confirmed, everything had been a whirlwind of emotions and radical actions for so long Dean had already forgotten what he was afraid of in the first place. He was hastily brought back to reality as he saw his father take his first drinks to celebrate their upcoming architect.

 

Before the night was over, Sam had called up his friends - his university was located up in Minnesota - and received multiple offers on where to bunk. It was still early, but he couldn't pretend this town had something for him anymore, now that he'd received a message from the divines. He'd go get acquainted with his new peer groups and key locations as soon as possible.

 

Which was _today_ , Dean realized. He'd thought he'd get more time, but nope - he could hear his giraffe of a brother stomp up and down the stairs, trying to find all his necessary belongings. Still reluctant to get up, he turned his back to the door and focused on the pouring rain. He still had a year of college left before he'd be able to make his escape. Staying in the city also felt mandatory; there was nothing for him, anywhere. Sam had always been the one who'd had it easy to get along with people. He'd made several friends off his future campus already, because most of them were as nerdy as him and already bragging on university Internet forums.

 

For a moment, Dean felt a pain in his chest so absolute it made him forget the throbbing one on his arm and the other on his cheekbone - souvenirs for not being happy enough for his brother, given to him late at night. _There truly was nothing for him._ He was an outsider to every occasion he'd ever encountered; the only thing he was involved in included violence. How did his life turn out to be like this? He'd always thought he'd eventually turn out alright and find his own people, but twenty-five years of socializing later that was still as far away as it was back then.

 

He raised his palm to quiet the sobs that came out despite his will. This was pathetic. Some people in his school thought he was so cool he was _unattainable_. That should count for something, right? Besides, what did he ever need general approval for? So what if people paid him no attention, he was still- he was still-

 

Yeah, what was he exactly? His vague attempts of cheering himself on were quickly drowned by more tears and even more nuclear rain. This was the end of his life - no more Sammy, no more morning coffee, no more someone to get up from the bed for. The new status quo of accommodations definitely allowed more face-time for John's fist. Better yet - it would still be a long time until John would get over the pearl-moon eclipse that wrecked the pinnacle of his career. If Dean would have to take a wild guess, it would take John around two weeks of binge drinking before he'd redeem the whole incident “not worth the shit” and try again. For Dean, two weeks was impossible - heck, any time was impossible.

 

Before he could fully register it, he was up on his feet. Anything - he needed to distract himself with anything. He was about to storm out the door, but that would be unfair towards Sam; he'd surely want his big brother to be there, sending him off to a new life. Since right now Dean felt nauseated by the sheer idea of being around his father, he sneaked into his brother's room.

 

“Hey, brother”, Sam said with a smile and a pat at Dean's shoulder, “I'm sorry, I'm in a rush.”

 

“Hey, uh. Me too, actually. Would it be cool if I bailed around now?”

 

Sam stopped midway while hovering above his huge-ass duffel bag, giving Dean a contemplating gaze.

 

“Yeah, I mean, of course, man. No problem, like I said I'm hurrying anyway. Have you- I mean, are you-?”

 

The question froze mid-air. _That's right, you moron_ , Dean thought, _you've been crying not five minutes ago and Sam's not the dullest tool in the shed._ Thankfully, he didn't start interrogating.

 

“Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine. Just slept really bad. Guess I'm excited for your news too.”

 

“You will miss me”, Sam said in a mocking tone, but there was fondness in his eyes.

 

“Of course I will, you big idiot. Now, if anyone gives you any hard time, you let me know, yeah?”

 

“I will”, Sam rolled his eyes, “even though you're likely to get kicked in the teeth by some big university fellas.”

 

Dean forced on a smile and gave his brother a hug that was a little lopsided due to him packing.

 

“You take care of yourself out there, Sammy”, he grumbled, “or I'll have to come get you back.”

*******

 

In the grayness of the afternoon, Dean felt like he could breathe again. It was cold enough for his breath to form fog clouds but not cold enough to whine, so he got some thinking done, too. There was so much happening last night… Of course, Sam's departure, John drinking, some general drinking-related bullshit, the pearl-moon and - and Charlie with Cornflower. That had to be a joke, honestly. Dean felt he was being scammed and bullied and that he'd been forcefully pulled in into a practical joke that he had no idea of. He felt _betrayed_.

 

Then again, _so what_?

 

It wasn't like there was a lot to protect in his life right now. He could take the bait, go deliver the cake, get as demolished as it should have gotten and maybe even live to tell the tale. He'd get to see Cornflower's stupid beautiful face again, show off his baking skills and finally, possibly, find out what he should be grateful about. Yeah, that sounded like a plan.

 

With newfound determination, he decided to visit the college. It was Saturday, but there was bound to be someone inside - some classes made pastries for people celebrating on Sunday and if that meant a Monday off and a free lunch, most students would enjoy the deal. This weekend was no exception; the doors were open and about a dozen students buzzed around the home economics class, happily chatting away. Not wanting to meet a teacher or anyone he barely knew, Dean tried to walk in the proverbial shadows a bit, only nodding to students as they passed by. When he made it to the cold storage, he let out a sigh. The cake was still here and it was still magnificent. It was big, looked delicious and the buttercream dahlias looked both delicate and professional. This was a bit more than a traitor like Charlie Bradbury deserved but it was too late to back up now. With only a small amount of hesitation, Dean collected his phone from his pocket.

 

“Hey Charlie, I'm bringing the cake. You didn't give me an address yet. Dean.”

 

Charlie was online on WhatsApp in a second and responded in another with the address and a smirking smiley. Dean contemplated on this for a second - should he ask about the emoji? - but decided to take off instead. The cake was not too heavy for him to carry alone and it fit neatly on the backseat of his beloved Impala, which was a happy accident.

 

 

The house was located in the back end of the town just before a forest took over the fields and Dean had to admit it looked amazing. Rain had now softened to a fog-like drizzle and visibility was bad, but on a good weather some people would _kill_ for a view like this, Dean thought and sneered. They possibly had killed for the view already.

 

He knocked on the door, balancing the cake in his other hand. There were some signs next to the door of which he understood nothing about, but otherwise he had to admit Charlie lived nicely. There was a porch swing next to him that screamed to be sat on and a brick BBQ seemed to be ready to kick off the summer early this year. There was no answer to his knock. Timidly, he tried the doorknob.

 

As he slowly pushed the door open, there was music. No- Not music, it was a symphony, a sound that resonated within his bone marrow and made him shiver almost painfully. Immediately, his mind was filled with the quote by his beloved Vonnegut: "The only proof he needed for the existence of God was music", and although that was saying a lot, it made sense to Dean right now. Trying to keep his focus on the cake, he glanced around in hopes of finding a surface stabler than he was now. The house was ragged from the inside, but there was a cosiness to it that couldn't be ignored; it was like sleeping in a half-platoon tent. It was a warmth of a family, however cold the outside world was.

 

Dean placed the cake on the kitchen counter and turned around to face a door leading to wherever the music came from. It was likely this was a trap. Didn't all psychopaths choose music they played while slicing their victims? They'd be right beside the door, ready to swing him senseless. Well, now was a time as good as any to get it over with. Before he could hesitate longer, he took those crucial steps towards the door and creaked it open.

 

Instead of a posse waiting to have his head on a plate he was welcomed by a smaller, but still significant, death. Cornflower was sitting on a chair in a sparingly-furnished room, playing a damn cello like he wouldn't have been too much for Dean to handle without this skill, and he was completely lost inside the melodies he was making. The light hitting him from the greyness of the outside world made him surreal, ethereal, _unreal_ and although this would have been the point for Dean to let him know he was here, he couldn't bring his throat to agree. Instead, he let the musical landscape swoop over him, let it caress his skin from all around and closing his eyes, allowed it to take him somewhere in a combination of feelings that was so, so familiar to him but still out of reach. There was raw emotion in Cornflower's cello game - anyone could have heard that. But in this private concert hall outside all sense and reality, Dean felt it was personal.

 

 

After a while, Cornflower let the bow slide across the strings slowly, as if to gently lean in on the following silence. Then, he raised his gaze to meet Dean's - not even flinching.

 

“Hello, Dean”, he said, his voice tracing the routes his cello had traveled through Dean's body, “what brings you around?”

 

“Cak-”

 

_Try again, Winchester._

 

“Cake brings”, he forced out. Cornflower put the instrument aside and got on his feet.

 

“Cake?”

 

“Yeah, cake. Right there.”

 

Dean could've sworn he'd never been in a situation with this much tension. Was it awkwardness? He'd felt all kinds of awkward situations in his life, but none of those made his breath hitch like this. Sure, though, being alone with a guy he'd been drooling over could do that to anyone.

 

He realized he'd been daydreaming over the moment Cornflower passed him and entered the kitchen. He was now examining the cake and as Dean saw his expression, he couldn't help the smile that was tugging at his mouth. In Cornflower's face there was awe - no, it was nothing short of _astonishment_ , and Dean felt like he was watching a child in Disneyland. Knowing that he had made that expression possible sent some warm rushes of blood all over Dean's chest. Also, it made him yearn to see more of that.

 

Oh, he was chin-deep in _screwed_.

 

“You”, Cornflower said then, finally lifting his eyes from the cake, “you're the cakemaker?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“You make the cakes for the school café?”

 

“Yeah, I… I do.”

 

“Oh”, he said, frowning and sighing. Was that a disappointment right there? “You're too good to be true, Dean Winchester.”

 

Was there mockery in his voice? Dean shook his head, brought his hands together and pulled them apart again, because no idiot in their right mind would keep their hands like that - and even though he tried so, so hard, there was nothing but admiration in Cornflower's voice.

 

“Thank you”, he whispered. “Although I have to disagree on that.”

 

“Are you busy tonight?”

 

“Uh- what?”

 

Cornflower laughed. In his high clouds of _smitten_ , Dean thought he sounded like an angel. He watched him lean casually against the kitchen island, placing his hands under his chin.

 

“If you're not busy, I would love you to stay around for the party.”

 

Dean blinked, trying to take this in. Well, he wasn't busy. There'd be people. Possibly there'd be more people than just Cornflower and his criminal friends - maybe he'd even have an alright time. At least, he wouldn't have to get back home just yet. He nodded.

 

“Yeah, I mean… I think my calendar can be rearranged”, he said and kicked himself mentally after. What was the point in hanging out with people, if he was going to lie his way through?

 

“Great. Oh”, Cornflower's sentence was ended abruptly by a phone. He raised his finger in a manner that seemed polite coming from him, gave Dean another smile and answered the call. Dean didn't want to seem like he was eavesdropping, so he decided to give the kitchen-adjacent living room a tour. Paintings splattered the walls, some of them without canvas but sprayed straight into the chipped paint. It looked messy, but the sense of cozy never left Dean's mind. If it didn't mean living with murderers and hooligans, he'd love to bunk here until John forgot about him.

 

He was about to give the couch more attention when his eyes caught a signature below one of the paintings. It was a bird, built out of green jewels, locked behind bars made out of dying trees and even though he wouldn't have needed to, Dean still leaned in to examine the signature closer - it was the C, followed by a mess. There was no mistaking it, it was the same artist who did pearl-moon.

 

“Sorry about that”, Cornflower said, “it was Chuck. He'll be here any minute, he just needed to know whether we need something from the store. What are we looking at?”

 

Dean swallowed. Would this get him into trouble again? Would this be putting his nose where it didn't belong again? Either way, he needed to know.

 

“Who made this?”

 

His voice was hoarse. Seriously, this painting shouldn't even surprise him anymore; nothing, regarding these people, should surprise him anymore.

 

“Yours truly”, Cornflower said, sniffling almost silently. He placed his fingers on the signature and Dean winced. When did he come so close? He could almost feel the warmth coming from the guy and he needed all his strength to keep himself from _leaning against him._

 

“Hm”, Dean sighed, “this is not the first piece of art I see from you.”

 

“It isn't?”

 

Dean collected all his strength and turned around to face Cornflower.

 

“Nope. I saw the… I saw the pearl.”

 

Cornflower frowned, then smiled gently.

 

“Oh. That's right. What'd you think?”

 

“I think… I think you didn't think about the consequences enough.”

 

It was instant - like he'd been on Dean's head, following the flow of his thoughts. His frown returned, deepened and there was something in his eyes that Dean couldn't decipher. Pity? No, not pity.

 

“I am sorry, Dean”, he said and raised his hand only to lower it again. Dean shook his head.

 

“Nothing new under the sun.”

 

Before Cornflower could say more, they heard the sound of the door.

 


	8. Calando

Before long, the party was in full swing. For starters, Castiel was grateful for Chuck for arriving exactly at the right time - he couldn't have taken any more moments with Dean alone without starting to bleed out love confessions. He wanted to talk to him soon, though; so many bones to pick. But for now, Charlie was mixing them drinks.

 

Considering how little they trusted other people and how little time they could spend with them, a whole bunch showed up. The buzz of a crowd made it easy for Castiel to forget the tingling sensation he felt as he realized Dean was listening to him play, the high-frequency rush he'd got from simply standing close to the guy and how much,  _ how much  _ he would have wanted to capture him in his arms. There was no mistaking it, though. Charlie had been right. And how pathetic  was that?! He barely even knew the guy and still he knew that nobody else, nothing else would ever move him this way again. _ This was it. _

 

As they toasted for the third time, Balthazar gestured them closer and a bit out of the people already starting to dance. Music was loud, but in a house this detached it was alright.

 

“I don't know what you're thinking about, but I'm feeling like doing some changes around town today.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Chuck asked, stretching his neck to see if someone was at hearing range. “Seriously, you're making plans, now?”

 

“Yeah, I am. Like we talked, things need to be taken into new levels.”

 

“Well isn't that Winchester level enough”, Charlie said, gesturing towards the green-eyed beauty now standing and vaguely listening to someone trying to impress him with magic tricks maybe, “You did ask him to stay, didn't you, Castiel?”

 

“That's my plan”, Castiel answered, feeling all kinds of butterfly species in his stomach. _That's my plan when I gather enough courage_. “I don't think we should make any plans while under the influence, Balthazar.”

 

The man squirmed a little. “I am frustrated, Cassie! I haven't had any action in ages!”

 

Chuck rolled his eyes. “We're not interested, however lame your personal life is.”

 

“I want plans, now.”

 

“Maybe plans today, but no execution? Would that do?” Charlie said, eyeing somewhere towards the kitchen. Castiel predicted her desires, fetching them a bottle of champagne they couldn't really afford but had bought anyway. While on his way back, he locked eyes with Dean for the shortest of seconds. The sensation this caused under his skin was nothing short of stunning.

 

"Well, whenever you're up for making some plans, I'm down for making them happen", Balthazar groaned. "But seriously, my balls are dropping here."

 

"Cool, you're reaching mature age, then", Chuck said. "Charlie, did you check out the board of activities today?"

 

"Yeah. There's a couple of medical conferences held tomorrow due to the pharmaceutical fair this weekend.  City council is sharpening their blades too, elections coming up and all.  Speeches in town square, mostly. "

 

"Hmh, medical issues. What was their ruling for this year?" Castiel asked.

 

"Well if they're not cutting from the weakest, that'd be a first", Balthazar said, "so let's go there."

 

Charlie shrugged. "Hm, I guess it would make sense. Let's bang some jungle drums for extra people."

 

"Are we done here?" Chuck asked, dodging the champagne bottle Charlie was opening now. "I want to go talk to people I have ignored for months."

 

"I could do the same", Castiel sighed, swallowing down the rush that came from getting back to Dean soon.

 

"Pffft, right. I bet there's a ton of people you want to go talk to", Charlie laughed. Her face was kind, though. Rolling his eyes, Castiel took off.

 

 

*******

 

Dean was examining the fireplace. Castiel felt his courage fade - he felt bad for whatever was coming next. He'd have to talk about Violability, the painting he did on the bottom of the swimming pool. He'd have to explain its meaning, be it so that art should never be explained, and he needed to make amends for the trouble it made Dean go through. He'd have to explain what he did on a daily basis and hope Dean would understand and still want to stay. Chances for that were next to none, to be honest. 

 

There was something glowing in Dean's eyes as he saw him. For a naïve second, he thought it to be excitement but no - it was fear. Definitely, definitely fear.

 

"Hello, Dean."

 

"Well, hey. Again."

 

Castiel let out a dry laugh. 

 

"Sorry I had to bail on you. There were some plans that we needed to discuss."

 

"I get it. If it weren't for planning, all murders would be reduced to kills."

 

Castiel frowned and let his gaze slide along Dean's face. For a second he lost himself in thought of the golden ratio definitely visible there - like he'd been sculpted by Saraswati herself. This was the absolute worst time to fall into silence and Castiel kicked himself in the shin for doing so anyway.

 

" Let’s talk ", he sighed, finally.

 

There it was again: Fear in Dean's beautiful features. Castiel let out a small groan for thinking he wanted to kiss it away _. Don't be  _ _ weird _ _ , Castiel.  _ But Dean's presence was disarming.

 

"I- If you think I'm going somewhere with you, you can think again", Dean said, his resolution crumbling in his voice. "I was just leaving this place. I don't want to be considered one of you."

 

"Let me start by telling you I'm sorry", Castiel said and immediately bit his tongue.  _ You're to wait for his say-so instead of forcing him to listen to your nonsense. That's preliminary consideration, moron. _ "And if you don't want to listen more, I'll leave it at that."

 

"Oh, goody. Good we got this sorted out then, bud", Dean said, patting the bricks of the fireplace.

"Now, if you'll excuse me."

 

Before Dean could take more than three steps away from him, he retracked them.

 

"OK, damn, I'm curious. Where are we going?"

 

Castiel squinted, considering this turn of events. This wasn't curiosity, it was self-destruction. Biting his lip now, he nodded anyway - at least he could offer Dean some sense of security after they got this cleared out.

 

"Come on", Castiel said, reaching out his hand for the shortest of seconds and masquerading it as a gesture of inviting Dean to follow, "let's go to my room."

 

 

As they arrived in Castiel's bedroom, he decided this was his worst choice ever. He could've picked the common room they usually did research in, or he could've picked the cello room which was mostly empty but no; he chose his bedroom, complete with research books and posters of Marx, Guevara and de Beauvoir. There was his bed, which would lead into awkward echoes of his teenage years on whether to sit there or not and if the very existence of a bed implied Dean owed him something or that Castiel wanted something in the first place. What he didn't expect was to see Dean have a seat on his cushy dumpster-dived chair and just - just blend in, just fit in his Communist Manifesto room like he both belonged there and also  _ wanted  _ to. Castiel had to swallow to gain control of his voice.

 

"Are you enjoying the party?"

 

Dean huffed. "That's your initial question?"

 

"No, I'm... I'm making it up as I go."

 

"Sure."

 

Castiel sat on his bed, then threw himself on his back with a groan. "I'm sorry, my conversational skills are subpar."

 

"Yeah, they are. Guess you could treat me like any other victim. I mean, no biggie, right?"

 

He turned his head to look at Dean, who was fidgeting with a ring he was wearing. Was that an engagement ring? No, wrong hand. It was hard to figure left and right out since he was almost upside-down right now.

 

"OK, what do you think I do for a living?"

 

Dean shrugged. "I don't know, kill people? Maybe you guys are hitmen or something. It's none of my business."

 

"I figured", Castiel whispered and straightened his posture back up. Shuffling on the bed until he was facing Dean, he let out a sigh before saying more.

 

"I don't know how to get through to you, but I fear you've misunderstood our intentions. It's common these days, you're not the only one. But this - this thing we've got going on here is as close to resistance as it'll get in this god-forsaken town."

 

Dean raised his eyebrows in a manner that made it clear he was well aware of this.

 

"Due to our actions, there have been waves of... Of counter-resistance. That's probably what you think we're doing. They've been trying to frame in hopes of getting us caught."

 

"That's nice", Dean said and let his fingers slide across the armrests now. "So your self-righteous actions have caused people to die. That's murder by proxy."

 

Castiel felt like he was being punched in the throat, repeatedly. It's not like he'd never thought of this but for some reason he wanted to believe other people wouldn't. He'd never really brought it up with his crew either; they had enough to worry about without his pessimism.

 

"I-"

 

He really had to think this through. He could take the conversation towards a direction that was both cheap and painful by comparing this statement to something Dean had no control over, but he knew better than to taunt his opposition in a debate,  when his opposition was already shivering with uncertainty.

 

"I want to disagree with you, Dean. The actions we take are to make people view the world differently. We're here to help out people in need. We're here to open eyes and to try and shove some sense into corruption and discrimination and the political system in this town. You know things are not well."

 

"Oh I know alright", there was wrath in Dean's voice now and Castiel would  _ pay  _ to have that kind of determination in his troops, "Things are not well, because you've tried to scare me dead for a year now. Your actions have caused me to get beaten up and when there's nothing else, I-"

 

Silence. Castiel frowned. There was something, something Dean was about to slip out just now before his judgment got better. What was it? With a squint, Castiel tilted his head.

 

"Please, go on."

 

"Nothing. I'm fed up."

 

Castiel nodded.

 

"I know how you feel. It... It was the exact feeling that got me into doing this stuff. And now, I'm doing my best to get the counter-resistance behind locked doors. We need to get our name cleaned, or people will no longer feel safe  in this house ."

 

"Safe?"

 

He'd expected it to be mocking, so Castiel was surprised to see almost genuine curiosity in Dean's face now. He was still mad, alright, but at least he was listening. Castiel knew he'd need to choose his next words carefully to keep his audience.

 

"Yes, Dean. One of the most important things we do as a group is to keep these doors open for people in need. We've had refugee families, we've had queer people kicked out of their homes and we've had girls seeking shelter from their abusive boyfriends. It's in our utmost interest to keep our name safe for these people. It would be counterproductive to let the other  group, filled with fascists, racists and other narrow-minded spirits, roam free."

 

Dean nodded, swallowing. He was letting this sink in. 

 

"Is that all you do?"

 

Before Castiel could answer, there was a swift knock on the door. Charlie pushed her head through the crack after opening it.

 

"Beer, fellas?"

 

Castiel turned to give Dean a questioning look. He nodded.

 

"Sure, bring 'em."

 

"We need your company soon, Castiel. There are people looking for you."

 

"Oh, go", Dean said quickly, "please, go. I'll have that beer and - and leave. I was about to, anyway."

 

There was something broken in the mood, Castiel felt it tingling in the air, rushing through his veins and burning in his lungs. Dean raised his chin almost defiantly, forcing a half-smile on his beautiful lips. It was a non-verbal challenge to defy his leaving.

 

"Charlie, please entertain our guests longer. I need to finish here."

 

Charlie saw this as an opportunity to tease a little, but Castiel's warning glance silenced her immediately. With a nod, she was off and away. 

 

Castiel knew he was losing Dean now; also he knew that he needed to change this. This would possibly be their last conversation if he didn't fix how Dean felt right now - he needed to make him feel better about himself, more secure, more at ease. Right now, he was awkwardness and on his toes waiting for whatever bombshell was about to drop next.

 

"I want to tell you I'm sorry."

 

He could almost hear Dean build up his defense walls again. 

 

"Oh."

 

"I should've prioritized you higher. I shouldn't have left you worrying about your future. It's been a busy year and it's never in my priorities to keep people under that kind of an influence. But there's more to that."

 

At this point, Castiel waited for Dean to say something - or at least somehow point out he was still listening. Instead, the man was running his fingers on top of a nightstand placed next to him,  following the movement with his eyes. It was best to continue, anyway.

 

"I have to admit I was under quite an emotional storm at that time, so my delivery might've left a lot to hope for. Also, I think times were different then; not that it's your fault and you are allowed to feel how you... however comes naturally to you, I didn't really think you would consider we were out to kill you."

 

Dean scoffed and rolled his eyes. Alright, if Castiel's plan had been to make Dean feel better about himself, he was sailing in a completely different direction now. Was it too late to turn the wheel?

 

"I guess it makes no difference now, but that day I was referring to your father."

 

This made Dean flinch. He sighed and raised his legs up, heels on the edge of the chair - to protect his ribcage, Castiel noted. This was hopeless.

 

"Huh? What about him?"

 

Could he say what he knew? He had to. This was the time to reveal his final hand - no more waiting or vague tricks.

 

"It was him we were going to show power dynamics to. And we did. Although", he raised his hand as if to touch Dean's cheek, even though he was way too far away, "clearly it was not enough."

 

Dean raised his hand to touch his face - he finished the move Castiel ignited and Castiel wanted to ask if he did that on purpose.

 

"I don't know what you're talking about, man."

 

Charlie opened the door again, pushing some beers in and leaving them at the nearest surface. She grinned apologetically. 

 

"Castiel, I'm sorry. I really need you around."

 

Before Castiel could argue, she closed the door again. He fetched the beers and gave one to Dean, who immediately raised it to his cheek. Did the low-resolution bruise in his face hurt? 

 

"Like I said, you should go."

 

For a moment, Castiel only looked at Dean. He didn't return his gaze, although he must know it was there - instead, he looked up at the posters, reading them carefully. Even thought he was now here, he was still a split image of how Castiel had always seen him; a caged bird made of splendid emeralds, locked behind bars of death. With a sigh, Castiel opened his bottle.

 

"I'm not going to force you to stay, Dean. Now that you do know what it is that we do, I trust you can make your own decisions. If you consider us to be the biggest threat out there, I'm not going to argue with that. But I want you to know that you're welcome to stay here.  This house belongs to anyone in need. "

 

For a split second, Dean's defenses fell. In their place,  there was almost  _ excitement _ . Soon after, scepticism arrived. 

 

"Huh, is that so? What would that cost me? Agreeing to hang out with criminals? Doing some tags around town?"

 

Castiel hummed. "You're already making tags around town, aren't you?"

 

He fell silent. Castiel got up, stretched his arms and walked to the door. 

 

"Alright, I'm going to leave you to your thoughts. If you decide to trust me, I'll introduce you to my family and you can stay as long as you want. And I do believe you, somewhere in your heart, already know it doesn't cost you a thing. Just... Just trust your instinct on this one."

 

As Castiel closed the door behind him, he felt his hands shake. Honestly, he had no idea how the conversation went or if he even covered any of the topics he wanted to. But at least, this time, he left the cage door open.

 


	9. Palmier

Beer was good, but it did little to ease the tidal storm raging in Dean's mind right now.

 

He'd had his mind set on the people already. He'd known they were criminals and he'd arrived here just to get away from home; possibly to get killed, even. This made him shake his head now. To get killed?  _ Really _ ? It had never been Dean's game to harbor these thoughts. Yet, here he was - in some kind of a revolutionary mess room, learning that he should trust Cornflower after all. Charlie kept calling him  _ Castiel _ . That didn't sound like a real name, either. 

 

But wasn't it typical for all war-igniting dictators to be charismatic and convincing? Dean had to admit he'd never given politics much thought - but should he have? He'd been so occupied with is own problems and troubles he'd forgotten about the rest of the world which, in hindsight, seemed a little selfish. He had no idea whether this - he looked around again - was good or bad. What was this even called? And why had  _ Castiel  _ made it seem like Dean's father was on the bad side of things? How could he know what happened in Dean's home, behind locked doors?

 

Also, what was wrong with building new swimming halls?

 

Dean could no longer sit still, so he started pacing across the room. So, so many books in here, none of which he'd seen before. He was pretty sure they'd been introduced to Marx at some point in school, but what was he on about? Was he a religious leader?  _ Winchester damnit, why can't you remember anything? _

 

This was pointless. He'd have to go with his guts, like he was told, but where were they taking him? In all honesty, there shouldn't be a question at all: If he stayed, he could spend more time with  Cornflower and get away from his father. With Sam gone and an unlimited battleground ahead, it was even possible he wouldn't make it out alive. The chance was slim, but it definitely was there.

 

But it wasn't about that, not really. He didn't give a shit about his home conditions, they were all he knew. What he did care about, and this was shocking for him to admit, was how Castiel saw him. Sure, right now the man was all tilt heads and squinty eyes and genuine interest towards him, but that was bound to change. If he were to spend more time with the guy, he'd eventually realize Dean is not interesting enough to get involved in. He'd then shove his ass out the door and render him homeless - and more painfully, heartbroken.

 

_ Heartbroken… _

 

Dean let this word slide out of his mouth as a silent whisper, mouthed it out again, let it fill his consciousness. That's what was going to happen, for sure, but for it to actualize one requirement had to be met. He lifted his beer-free hand to his chest almost ceremonially, feeling the beat under his skin. For his heart to get broken, it should be  _ involved _ . He should be in the situation fully, with all he's got, heart first - 

 

But he wouldn't believe his heart could break if it wasn't involved already, right?

 

He bit his tongue to keep himself from bursting into tears. Being attracted to someone was one thing. Being attracted with your heart was another and there was a 4-letter word to describe that.

 

Instead of panicking, Dean felt himself blush and despite his flawless biting game, tear up anyway. He put the beer down and lifted his palms to cover his face for a while. The realization dawned on him like a blanket, warm at first but suffocating later - a lead-woven fabric of _ please, god, no.  _ He heard sobs escape his throat without his say-so, and the vigorous shaking coming from deep inside his muscles made him sit down on the edge of the bed. His mind was a buzz, endlessly looping on  _ why, why, why why why why he's a stranger you don't know him he's the enemy control yourself you idiot this is why you can't have nice things _

 

 

 

*******

 

After what felt like years, Dean saw himself in the mirror. Until now, it had just been like watching the world through a transparent umbrella when it's raining but now, he' d got his emotions on leash. Crying uncontrollably hadn't been on his to-do list for today, but now that it's done and over with, he felt almost at ease. His mirror image did little to make him forget his emotional realization, though - there was still a faint glow of blush behind his freckles and his eyes were swollen from the outflow of repressed feelings. 

 

_ You're an idiot _ , he whispered to his image and watched his lips form the words as if that would help him set things in perspective.  _ You're an idiot and also, you're stupid. _

 

He sighed, slammed his palms on the countertop and left the room.

 

Castiel’s gaze found Dean's in the main room, where people were dancing to some 90's jives. He raised his chin in a greeting, but Dean couldn't quite answer it. There was a prominent part of him that  still  wanted to leave immediately - just leave all this behind and go back to John Winchester and eventually find a happy medium between what he wanted and what was expected of him. Another, maybe more prominent part of him wanted to see tonight through; and that small voice in the back of his head that wanted to tell  Castiel how he felt, he kept under a tight lid.

 

He was greeted by a man then - he'd seen him around tonight, but he knew him better from his cameo appearance in the Winchester residence staircase. Dean wasn't sure whether he should attack the arrival or just leave him standing, but upon looking in his eyes, he decided on neither. There was worry - no, anxiety - in them. He was restless.

 

"Hey", Dean opened the conversation, gaining a forced, rapid exhale through the man's nose.

 

"Hello", he replied, flexing the word through an extended period of time, "see, I'm not good at parties."

 

"Hm?"

 

"No, I'm not. I'm Chuck."

 

Dean nodded slowly. "I'm Dean."

 

"I know. You're the Winchester. I'm sorry about the whole- uh. Ordeal."

 

"Nah, nothing I haven't handled before."

 

Chuck laughed and it was only marginally pretentious.

 

"The thing is, you haven't, right? You had no idea of the world outside your door before we pulled you in."

 

"Well, I knew there was a world out here, I just... I just had it hard to find time to think about it."

 

"I know, I mean", Chuck gestured vaguely to himself and then to the crowd, or maybe  Castiel across the room, "I was you a couple of years ago. I was on my final stretch, ready to give up, but I was convinced I deserve to be saved."

 

Dean wouldn't have admitted it even under a gun pointed at him, but there was definitely a surge of jealousy running through his veins. He blamed it on his new-found platonic love life and tried to swallow it back down before Chuck could question his sanity.

 

"That's noble of... Of people."

 

"Yeah, well, I mean, I owe Castiel a lot", he replied, scratching his beard with his thumb somewhat absent-mindedly, "I want to believe most people do."

 

"Sure. But, uh. You know man, lemme make my choices myself. I don't think complimenting the opposite party discreetly increases their stocks at this point."

 

"Oh!" Chuck laughed in a manner that seemed both out of place and out of his generally prudent style, "Oh. That was... That was not what I was on about. I'm feeling drunk and nostalgic, that's all."

 

"Right."

 

"Right. Dean, have a drink on me", he said, trailing off for a second and then lowering his gaze into his hands, "No, I don't have it on me. I need to go fetch a drink now, right?"

 

Dean hummed. "I can fend for myself but thanks, buddy."

 

At this point, the music changed from a nerve-wrecking EDM to a more pleasant atmosphere of what sounded like a cover of a Leonard Cohen song. Chuck grinned, mostly at his toes.

 

"It would be awkward if I'd gotten you that beer, now. We'd have to slow dance."

 

"Huh. Didn't know that was  the exchange rate of a beer these days ."

 

"Well, sure it ain't. Do you like it though? Dancing?"

 

Being unable to answer the question truthfully, Dean shrugged. The room did start to seem a bit too high school disco for his taste. People were taking each other by the hand and leaning against each other and it was all just too gooey and Dean made sure to keep his eyes on the floor instead of trying to catch  Castiel’s eye. Chuck picked up his phone, which was a perfect cue for Dean to go get some fresh air. He slided through the dancing couples until he was facing the back door. There was some punch right next to it, so he decided to check that out, too.

 

One and a half hours and a ton of gooey slow dances later people started to head out - some to bars in the city, some to their homes to sleep off the shame of mentally reaching their puberty tonight. Dean was feeling both drunk and cynical; nobody had tried to talk to him after he'd gone out, nobody even noticed his return and most of all,  Castiel seemed to be far too into a posh looking blonde guy to notice his existence anymore. Was it too late to change his mind about returning to his father? The thought that Dean would have stayed for  Castiel and not for himself was horrifying in the first place, anyway - he wanted to let that slip his mind.

 

As he was standing in the junction between the living room and the hallway, looping some very Clash-esque questions in his mind, a warm hand was placed on his shoulder. It was gone the second it came, but the gesture was soothing, an extended message of "I've got you", and even though it took a while longer for  Castiel to get around and concentrate on him again, Dean's whole mood had already shifted.  How did this person have such a profound hold of him?

 

"You're dangerous", he said to  Castiel , when he finally stood in front of him. He was rewarded with a sly grin. 

 

"Whatever do you mean?"

 

"You make me-"

 

_ Wow, Winchester. Even though you're drunk, you can't say things as they come to you. _

 

Castiel stepped closer, frowning. Oddly enough, his smile didn't falter.

 

"Tell me."

 

When Dean didn't answer,  Castiel raised his hands - an invitation to take them.

 

"Would you like to dance with me? I'm sorry I've been occupied this long, but I swear, not a minute passed by in which I didn't want to ask you to dance."

 

Dean felt his heart hitch and possibly stop. This was not a political statement, this wasn't  Castiel trying to ask him to stay. This seemed an awful lot like... Like courtship.  _ Shit, you idiot. Of course it could be another way to manipulate you to stay. _ But before Dean could stop himself, he raised his hands, letting the other man gently trace his palms with his fingertips and then lace their fingers together. The quiet squeal escaping from Dean's throat wasn't there, okay, it just wasn't. 

 

The song could have been anything, to be honest. It was slow, guitar-based and in the moodset, there in the low lights of the late night when most people had left already and the apartment looked like there'd been a confetti parade, Dean couldn't bring himself to listen to it too thoroughly - he'd cry, for sure. Instead, he kept his focus on  Castiel ; his gentle hand on his back and the other one in his hand, his soothing presence and the slow, graceful inhale-exhale of his  lungs . Dean felt the tint of blush return to his cheeks and tried to count exactly how many shots of that raspberry punch he'd had. Nearly not enough to be brave enough for this situation.

 

"To be honest, I had my scouts up",  Castiel murmured with a hint of laughter in his voice, "I had to ask Chuck to come meet you so I'd know whether you like dancing or not."

 

"And I didn't even give him an answer", Dean replied, biting his lip. He was too loud for this situation. Too... Too un-elegant. Too not-sophisticated-enough.

 

"Yeah. You did make it hard for me to toughen up and come to you."

 

Even though Dean's brain was mush, he scoffed. "What, were you nervous?"

 

"Oh, Dean", he laughed quietly, "you have no idea."

 

That could've meant anything, but the hue in  Castiel’s voice was deep honey - and not even the gooey kind, but the serious kind. Dean felt his legs slowly turn to jello and the only thing he could do to stop himself from crumbling down was to lean his forehead on the man's shoulder.

 

What the-

 

_ Good going, Winchester.  _

 

But, but instead of running away or scolding him or shaking him off,  Castiel leaned his damn cheek against Dean's head. As if in mutual agreement or a golden wire wrapped around them, their bodies swayed flush against each other. There was a ringing in Dean's ears now - this was absurd, warm,  _ absurd _ and the man smelled like cake and vanilla and what Dean would love to describe as revolution and 

 

"I'm sorry about what my art did to you."

 

His voice was a whisper now. A fondant-smooth starry night sky had been thrown over them, they were in a void of galaxies.

 

Dean swallowed. His throat felt thick.

 

"It's not in your hands", he said, still a bit loud for this moment, "you couldn't have known."

 

"I should know how a mind like your father's works. People inclined to domestic violence always takes the easy way out in a crisis."

 

Castiel must've felt Dean's body tense, because his fingers started tracing elaborate circle-like patterns on his back.

 

"I- Sorry, I'm just not used to talking about it casually like this", Dean sighed.

 

"And I don't intend to bring it up."

 

There was a silence somewhere below their current state - possibly the song changing. Dean vaguely thought about the people still present and whether they were staring at them, but then  Castiel talked again.

 

"If you want, I can tell you about the piece of art instead. What it represents."

 

"Well, I figured it to be important to you. I think that's all I need to know."

 

The laughter bubbling from  Castiel’s chest was full of fond amusement.

 

"Look, it's alright to question things, even if said things come from me. If I can teach you one thing in this life, it's to question things. You don't have to agree to everything people do without asking why."

 

"Okay, I'm asking. Why?"

 

"I chose the elements to resemble feminine energy. The names in the painting are people who your father has disqualified from work on his projects because they were female. The male names in there are the names of people affected by proxy."

 

A shiver forced its way out of Dean's bones. Another thing he'd never given any thought to; his father's views on people and how many souls had to suffer because he was a misogynistic bigot. He gave a lopsided shrug.

 

"Ain't messing with you. Right now I'm ashamed to share his blood."

 

Dean squealed again as he felt Castiel pull him firmer against himself.

 

"You be the exception to the rule, then. I'm very glad you came to exist."

 

He felt the man straighten his posture a bit, the warmth of his cheek leaving Dean's scalp. He raised his head, too, to lean their foreheads together. Castiel breathed gently and Dean heard it shake. Was it possible they were in this  _ together _ ? Was he not the only one affected by the tidal waves that had been brushing against them for ages now? Was his unrequited love-

 

Just as his head was going in circles around what was now and what could be seconds after, he heard words. Someone was talking words that pierced right into their  spun sugar  -sedated daydream world and ripped it open. The voice was lazy and pretentious and sounded like it belonged to a person who thought he was way over the league of this party.

 

"Fine piece of meat", the voice said and laughed through their nose, it came out as a snort, "that's a fair point, I guess. Dean Winchester is cool to have around because that pisses off the bourgeoisie. Darling, I don't know if you're using that word right. A valuable asset. Agree, sure."

 

Dean shook his head to get rid of the lovestruck haze going on in there and broke free of Castiel's embrace - which, admittedly, felt a lot like falling in ice. He focused his eyes on the posh-looking blonde, who was leaning against the kitchen island, reading from a piece of wrinkly paper. He was clearly in his own world and possibly unaware he'd broken a scene just now, since he was reading to a cake-ogling Chuck that stood next to him, but that did little to soothe the storm building up in Dean's chest.

 

"Doubts. Is Dean worth it? John is a twat, but is Dean too? Will he be a brat about our line of work? Tut-tut. You know the situation better than that to ask these questions."

 

"Dean", Castiel's voice was both wary and demanding, "let me tell you about this."

 

Another set of ringing started in Dean's ears; this time, it was the panicky kind. Of course. Of course they were having him as an asset. He was worth for exactly as much as he was; John Winchester's son, who you could benefit from, who you could use as an asset in negotiations, who you could lock up and keep until you've reached your goal.  _ Of course. _

 

"No need", Dean scoffed, "I've got the idea. Now, if you'll... Just…"

 

He could feel all eyes on him as he grabbed his coat and headed out the door.

 

 


	10. Slancio

Castiel was choking.

 

He'd fallen into some kind of a dream in which he was constantly pulled underwater and simultaneously choked to death by invisible, cold hands.

 

It'd already been a long time since the alcohol had burned from his blood. He was lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of his friends going to sleep. Charlie had arrived and apologized and Castiel had said it's not her fault - nobody was to blame for this, except maybe Castiel himself. If Dean would've trusted him enough, he'd have listened. He didn't use the little time he had well enough so Dean never got the chance to believe in him. 

 

Would Dean Winchester be one of those things that Castiel would mark as  _ failure  _ in his books? He felt unable to let go but also knew there was little to be done. He wasn't going to force it. His head began to ache with the anticipation that had ended in misery and he wanted to sleep it off. 

 

And he was choking. He was choking when the house fell asleep, he was choking when the sun started to make its first  paint brushes on the sky behind the curtains and he was choking when he was tapped awake by fingers on his shoulder.

 

"Castiel, dear", he heard Charlie whisper, "it's for you."

 

His eyes were blinded by the phone screen as he opened them. For a moment, he was feeling too heavy-in-the-heart to speak. When he finally took the phone and landed it on his ear, he could hear the sound of morning commute and heavy breathing. He hummed on the phone to let it be known he was present now.

 

"Castiel?"

 

"Dean."

 

There was laughter at the end of the line. Charlie waved and left the room. 

 

"Yeah. Yeah Cas, look. I'm -"

 

A car honked its horn at Dean, which resulted in some swearing. Castiel giggled in silence. Even hearing from Dean again made his heart feel warm and stupidly hopeful.

 

"Look, so, I'm in a total state of freaking denial right now, but apparently just a couple of minutes ago I told my dad to cram it. No, that wasn't the turn-of-phrase I used. But you get the idea."

 

"Wait, you did?"

 

"Well, yeah. I- Cas, I stood up to him. And now I'm homeless."

 

"What happened?"

 

"I guess I... I guess I jumped off a cliff and need help with developing my wings."

 

Castiel smiled. Dean must have come across the note he left in town - another Vonnegut quote, right next to Dean's _ I need you. _

 

"Luckily, I'm the best wing developer in town. Want me to come pick you up?"

 

"Nah, man. I already walked home, though, so I might take a cab back. I've got a lot of stuff, anyway. I've got everything I own with me. I'm... I'm really not going back there, am I?"

 

"Don't panic in there. Get your fine-ish piece of ass here and let's have some cake."

 

 

It didn't take Dean longer than fifteen minutes to get back. As Castiel opened the door to let him in, he raised his finger to his lips to indicate the wished-for silence. He took Dean's  duffel bags, two of them, and carried them  into his room. When he turned to face the man, he could see him falling to panicking pieces already. Slowly, Castiel put his hands on Dean's arms to soothe him.

 

"You're here now. You're not going back. That's what matters, alright?"

 

Dean nodded, biting his lower lip. He then proceeded with an awkward lean-in, but didn't hug Castiel despite his intentions.

 

"I'd love to see what's left of that cake", he laughed then, wiping the corner of his eye. Castiel slided his hands to Dean's, gently tugging him towards the kitchen.

 

"It's still magnificent, trust me."

 

"I should hope so. I spent almost a reasonable time with it."

 

The cake was already in the fridge, so Castiel had to let go of Dean to change that. It already felt empty and wrong in his hands without the other man. He tried to shake it off and play this lighter, but something in the dance earlier hinted that possibly, just possibly he wouldn't have to. The thought made him feel dazzled. 

 

"Here we have it", he said, placing the quarter-cake with an extra dahlia on the counter, "I am still in awe over it. I mean, I knew you were good, since you've been slowly taking my heart away with your bakings in the cafeteria, but this really takes the crown."

 

"It does? I didn't have time to taste it."

 

Oh, this was way too tasty of an opportunity to ignore. Castiel grabbed a fork, shoved it in the blue layers of the cake and brought it, secured with his other hand to keep the treasured deliciousness from falling, to Dean's lips. 

 

"By all means, take a shot at it."

 

He could see how much Dean wanted to  _ not  _ like the moment. He'd labeled it corny far before he'd started making cakes, most possibly, and told himself he'd never use a move that lame on anyone. But the tables had turned, and the cakemaker was now on the receiving end of the clich é . And he was practically swooning.

 

Castiel had never seen anything so endearing.

 

But Dean did try the cake. Then, he nodded and shrugged.

 

"Yeah, this is one of the best ones I've made. Also, I like how it... How it looks", he said, clearing his throat at least twice during the sentence, "and, uh, the layers are firm. I dislike sloppy cakes."

 

"Yes, sloppy cakes, damn it", Castiel hummed, taking the dahlia in his hand and biting a couple of petals off, "this, on the other hand, makes me really happy."

 

Dean  _ blushed _ . Alright, scratch that first comment on endearing.

 

"Great. Uh, I should hit the hay, really", he said, causing Castiel's eyes to squint almost automatically, "I didn't have any sleep yet."

 

Instead of making any moves on going to the couch or asking where he could rest, he just stood there and swung his arms a little. Then he frowned and when he talked, his voice was strained.

 

"Thanks for letting me spend a while here. I'll be out of your hair as soon as I find something else."

 

"You're welcome to stay as long as you want", Castiel said, now dragging his finger across the empty side of the cake platter, scooping up crumbles and buttercream, "even if that's forever."

 

Dean huffed.

 

"Wasn't the point of this place to let people stay until they move on?"

 

"I don't... I don't consider you a-"

 

Castiel fell silent. Okay, this was it, no more dancing around the subject they'd both so keenly avoided. He'd have to say it out loud: Say what he thought was going on. Whether that resulted in Dean leaving because he didn't feel as deeply, was uncertain. The more Castiel thought about what he was going to say, the sillier it sounded. They'd met how many times now? How many of those times had they spent chatting? He knew nothing of the guy. It was  _ far _ too deep to use the phrase "in love". Yet, for some reason, it didn't feel like exaggerating at all. 

 

Wrapped in these thoughts, he was surprised to notice Dean standing closer to him, reaching out to wrap his fingers around Castiel's wrists. 

 

"I don't consider you ay- anything, either", he said, his voice a low grumble eminating from his chest, "in case you... Didn't know it yet."

 

Castiel shook his head, smiling. 

 

"No, I did not."

 

He escaped from Dean's grip to place his hand on the man's cheek. Dean looked down in embarrasment or whatever it was that was circulating around them like a silent nocturnal serenade, but Castiel fetched back his gaze by a simple gesture of tilting his head a little. The smile he was granted with was delicious and Castiel couldn't help himself from gently tracing Dean's bottom lip with his thumb. The sound Dean let out was even more delicious. 

 

Slowly, Castiel leaned in, keeping his eye contact firm - this was in no way an initiative to do anything Dean didn't want to, and he wanted the man to know that. Dean's exhale was stuttering, but they met halfway and there, in the low, blue haze of the promise of a morning light, they kissed for the first time. It was nothing short of breathtaking; of course, it was mostly shy and reserved and unprepared and clumsy, but Castiel could feel the tension that'd been building inside him pour into Dean's lips. He could see the man sitting in the  subway on a grey morning , beaten up and with a badly concealed black eye, he could hear his promise to himself to take care of this man and now, now it was here, with the scent of the morning mist in a city and a person who'd just done a crucial move towards freedom in his life. And from now on, from this point onwards, Castiel would make sure to make this person feel loved, cherished, adored, treasured.

 

As they parted after a time that was both too short and also somehow too  _ thin _ , Dean's eyes were wide, almost fully black and he just stood there, mere inches away, savoring the moment. Castiel felt his heart thump against his ribs loudly enough to raise the dead and the silence outside it stretched on. After a minute, Dean frowned and took Castiel by the hand.

 

Then he laughed. It was a laughter of joy, of relief, of happiness. He leaned their foreheads together and Castiel joined the laughter, and they just giggled until Dean kissed him again, this time shorter, kind of just to ground them.

 

"I'm sorry, I'm going to have to take a seat now", Dean sighed, "Show me the way to wherever I'm sleeping tonight."

*******

 

Dean must've known it, too, but there was no way Castiel would've let him sleep anywhere but his bed. He did, of course, give the choice but Dean practically purred as Castiel wrapped his arms around the man. Castiel gave a couple of little kisses around Dean's hair and settled down to sleep, but after a couple of quiet seconds, Dean started to squirm.

 

"It's hot", he whispered, and the sound reminded Castiel vaguely of sleepovers when he was a child - they had to keep it quiet, or some furious parents would ensue. 

 

"Take your pants off, then."

 

"Hey! I do expect you to at least buy me flowers first."

 

Castiel snorted.

 

"I will buy you real dahlias, then. I'm a decent person, Dean. I won't step over boundaries with or without your pants."

 

"I know", Dean sighed and wriggled out of his jeans, "Besides, sleeping with your clothes on is so... So teenage years."

 

"So is slow dancing."

 

Dean smiled in the dim light and turned to his side, placing his hand under his head.

 

"Cas?"

 

"Yes, Dean?"

 

"When did you find out about my dad?"

 

Castiel frowned lightly, uncertain of what to share. Well, earlier thoughts were still valid - no point in sharing less than everything.

 

"When I first met you."

 

"When was that?"

 

"It's... It's been a while."

 

"Earlier than when we met at the parking lot?"

 

"Earlier."

 

"When?"

 

"I think it was six months prior to that. I'd, of course, seen your dad before, he's known around here - and from local newspapers, I kind of knew what you and your brother look like, too. But it wasn't until I saw you in person that I knew what he was doing to you."

 

Dean let this sink in for a moment.

 

"Have you stalked me?"

 

"No", Castiel scoffed, "I would never."

 

"I know, I know. Jeez, sorry. Why didn't I meet you back then, though?"

 

"I saw you in a subway. You were hurt."

 

"I never even take the subway."

 

"That day, you did. I did take the same shift a couple of days afterward so I could talk to you, but you didn't appear again so I figured I'd have to find another route to you. The parking lot was an accident, though. I didn't mean it for you to see such a show."

 

Dean smiled again and shuffled closer to Castiel to bump their noses together. Castiel closed his eyes and let the warmth and scent of the man sweep over him. Then, he angled his head to kiss Dean. 

 

This time, it was far from hesitant. Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel's neck and pulled until he was somewhat half on top of him - he placed his arms to each of Dean's sides to keep the man from crushing under him. A frustrated groan escaped Dean's throat immediately.

 

"Cas-"

 

His voice spiralled out of control as Castiel brushed his lips against his jaw.

 

"Yes, Dean?"

 

"I need you."

 

Castiel felt blood rush through from his toes and up his spine - achingly so, the sound of Dean's breath and the fact that he was right here,  _ finally right here _ and even further in that he even dared dream of, was driving him crazy. Despite the feeling in his head and stomach that felt an awful lot like falling off a cliff, he collected his effort and looked Dean in the eyes. He was about to say something, possibly ask if the other man was alright or - or anything that would keep him off from traveling way too far way too fast, but all he could see in those Antonovka greens was admiration, trust, and a sense of peace. Then, Dean groaned again, this time giving Castiel the blissful state of no escape; pushing his shoulder, he turned the tides in less than a second, pressing Cas' back against the mattress and climbing on top of him, straddling his hips. Castiel reached up to capture Dean's lips again, biting gently at the man's lower lip and tracing it with his tongue. He felt Dean tremble under his touch as he put his palms firm against his back. Knowing he - knowing Dean was as emotionally invested as he was, just - it just made Castiel's head spin over and over and over and _ over  _ and it was all the starlights plugged off the heavens and gently pressed under Dean's skin. He was warm, he reacted to Castiel's touches like he'd been starving for them since he was born and - and  _ oh god _ , he was sliding his hands under Castiel's shirt, caressing his sides. He let Dean's tongue set off into a discovery mission between his lips and gasped at the feeling of fondness in his touch. Alright, so they both had been starving for each other. Instead of things heating up into a point of no return, now, there were embers - hot, hot, scolding embers of affection that ignited between them time and time again, they explored each other's bodies gently, carefully and with devotion and reverence. 

 

And then, the final piece of the puzzle just clicked into place in Castiel’s head – that thing that had had him up at night, worried about the meaning of his existence.  This was what  he didn't even realize he had been desperate for - for someone to step into his personal space, claim this his territory and set up a quieter, but exactly as important revolution inside him.


	11. Croquembouche

Dean woke up alone.

 

He was in the room of manifests, words of praise still lingering on his skin and his lips a bit swollen and sore. He lifted his fingertips to his chest, instantly finding the gentle but demanding bite mark on his collarbone. He shivered.

 

_ You're beautiful. _

 

His mind was filled with echoes of last night.

 

_ You're perfect and I will make sure you'll never get hurt again. _

 

Dean felt his throat thicken - he had been awake for thirty seconds and already he was on the verge of tears.

 

_ Castiel, _

 

_ I need you. I need you. I need you. I need you. I need you. _

 

Not quite what he wanted to say, but  _ so close. _

 

He wanted to cherish this feeling forever, just lie here and wait for Castiel to return and slowly take him apart, inch by inch, with little praising kisses given to his skin. They were off to a good start with that, but now Dean felt e was violently pulled away from his slumber. There were sounds coming from somewhere in the house that piqued his interest; first, he thought them to be his new roommates chatting away - but the sounds were harsher, somehow. 

 

They were threatening. They were the sounds he'd heard on the parking lot - the muttering, the atmosphere of fear, the air was waiting to explode with some kind of an implosion, an outbreak of yelling or hitting or shooting or whatever it was. Since they were still in Castiel's house, Dean quickly caught up with the situation. They weren't threatening anyone-

 

They were  _ being threatened. _

 

Keeping his steps light and silent, Dean got up from the bed and leaned against the shut door. He could hear the muffled conversation.

 

"Sorry, I really don't know what you're talking about."

 

"You know damn well what we're talking about! What we wanna know is what you found out, who you're working for and what keeps us from shooting you right now!"

 

"I work for myself, let me state that. I do not need to be pushed around like some of us seem to."

 

"Do you  _ wish  _ to die, idiot?"

 

There was shuffling. Even from this space, with no eye contact to the intruders, Dean could sense their uncertainty. They weren't scary badass people coming to slaughter them - they were scaredy rats, threatened by their boss themselves. That's why they wanted to know who Castiel worked for and his freelancing drove them insane. They now had no idea where to turn to. If nobody ruled Castiel, would it help to kill him off or would there be more freelancers taking vengeance? This did make their new-found enemy weak, but also unpredictable.

 

"If there's nothing more, I'd like to ask you to leave now."

 

Castiel's voice was firm and calm. Was it a façade? Of course it was. Even Dean's heart was pounding and he wasn't even in the room. 

 

Then - then a sound of a gun safety being released. Dean fisted his hands so he wouldn't rush in without a plan, but adrenaline was already checking in and making reservations. Alright, plan plan plan PLAN plan plan time for a plan. His brain, helpfully, felt like shutting down.

 

"We're not going. We know where you live now, and you will never be safe again."

 

_ Plan _ .

 

Firmly, Dean opened the door. He was greeted by Castiel, who gave him a look of _ parental scolding due later, idiot _ , and a couple of men that were a bit older than them. At first impression, they weren't too terrifying. Thug-looking, sure. Larger by them by a landslide, yes. Also scared, definitely. There was a gun pointed at Castiel, but it didn't stop Dean from strutting right next to him. Another glance was shared - I miss you, I didn't want to wake up without you, I need to get closer again.

 

"Hello, love", Dean said, giving a quick peck to Castiel's cheek, "who are your guests?"

 

There was a sound of mimicked retching from the thugs' side. Dean rolled his eyes.

 

"They were just leaving", Castiel hissed, squinting at them.

 

"Ah, by all means, stay for a cuppa or two. We have some cake left from our big gay party last night", he did a dazzle-implying gesture with his hands. 

 

"You're Dean Winchester, right?" one of them asked, nodding his way, "what the hell?"

 

Castiel winced quietly - this did seem like a lot of change in such a short period of time. But if the man thought Dean hadn't already made up his mind about Castiel and his new home, he had another thing coming.

 

"Yeah, I'm Dean, alright", he said, squinting, "and this property is mine, and I've forbidden the use of firearms on my land. Could you be a darling and put that away?"

 

"S-So you're living here too?" 

 

The hand holding the gun was shaking now. Dean shrugged.

 

"Well, I own the place. And there's no 'too', as I'm currently residing here alone. My beautiful date here", he gestured towards Castiel, who now had his arms wrapped around his chest for protection, "is just visiting. Wait- do you even know him?"

 

The other man shuffled, looking down. Dean didn't even have to indimitate him - he already felt like he was being punished for being a bad boy.

 

"Well? Do you or do you not?"

 

"We followed him", the gunman said, "alright, Castiel? We followed you last night. We knew something was fishy with you since you didn't flinch as there were those filthy,  tax  money-eating m-"

 

"Hey!" Dean yelped, "save the speech. I don't know what you've pegged my dear  man here for, but  if it’s a racist slur that’s coming, it’s not welcome here, not now, not ever. Now, were I in your shoes, I would paddle away as fast as my tiny feet took me and never look back and be glad I'm not taking this further up the congress - you know my name, you know my authority. I can have your paychecks and dignity cut in a funny little snap-sounding motion if you ain't out of my hair in FIVE."

 

"But-" the man gestured towards Castiel, "he-"

 

"Four."

 

"Look, it's not worth it", the gunman said, shifting his feet.

 

"Also please remember we're kind of low key as of yet", Castiel said, somehow finding his footing now, "so if you're gossiping about our relationship or his home up here, we'll know what to do."

 

Dean nodded in agreement, but didn't stop his countdown.

 

"Three."

 

"Just, let's-" the other man said, taking the gunman by the arm and tugging him out the door. There was a sound of stumbling on things, cursing and running and finally, a van starting and taking them away. Dean huffed and bent over to support his palms on his knees. Castiel put an unstable hand on his back.

 

"What the- What the hell, Dean."

 

Dean bursted out laughing and for a moment, that was all he could do.

 

"I'm sorry. I don't even-"

 

He did a dismissive wave with his hand.

 

"I don't even know."

 

As he straightened his posture, he was met with a gaze that was nothing short of worshipping.

 

"Dean, I think you just saved my life."

 

"Nah, I-"

 

He couldn't finish his sentence because soft, thankful and still shaking lips were placed on his. There were sobs escaping Castiel's throat, the amount of relief in his gestures was overwhelming. It dawned only now to Dean that they could both have been killed - nothing was keeping the man from firing his gun anyway. With a sigh, he pulled Castiel closer, placing his hands on his back. This,  _ this  _ was home. It was an electric flash flood and warm caramel poured over him and it eased his adrenaline levels to bearable. When they parted, Castiel leaned against Dean, placing his head on the nook of his neck. They stood like that for a small eternity.

 

*******

 

Before long, the sound of a vehicle pierced through Dean and Castiel's paradise. They were lying on the couch, Castiel firmly tugged under Dean's arm, tracing out each other's palms and fingers and getting to know each other through the art of storytelling. Dean loved every piece of information he heard, both the good and the bad - it made his Cornflower seem more real, less of a dream. Every now and then, a piece of information was too much to bear for one of them and they resolved those situations by reaching out to kiss. Every tender touch they shared felt like fire that would get out of hand if kept on for too long, so they kept it short for now. There'd be time for further physical excursions later.

 

Balthazar was the one to come for them. He rolled his eyes at the sight and leaned against the kitchen counter.

 

"Look, kids, we've got a dump truck outside, so we're ready when you are."

 

"A what?" Dean asked. Castiel leaned over once more, giving him a chaste kiss that felt almost painfully longing now, and then got up. It was empty and cold and  _ wrong _ . God, Dean was getting sappy already and they were still on their first 24-hour.

 

"A dump truck, apparently", Castiel hummed, "it's a truck that-"

 

"Yeah, yeah, I know what a dump truck is. Why do we have it?"

 

"There's the pharmaceutical fair in town today", Balthazar said, "and we're going to visit them. Ruffle it up a little."

 

"It's nothing that'll hurt anybody", Castiel sighed upon seeing Dean's facial expression change, "it's similar to reclaiming streets; you just got to let people know there's resistance and you need to show up for that to happen."

 

"Nothing keeps you from staying here", Balthazar told Dean, "we're not actually expecting you to tag along, anyway."

 

Dean stood up, frowning. 

 

"Oh I'm coming alright. It's the least I can do, since I'm allowed to stay here and all."

 

"I'm not sure you comprehend what's-"

 

"Hey, are you being a dick on purpose or what? Like I said, I'm coming."

 

That might have been stepping over the boundaries a bit, but Balthazar burst into laughter.

 

"Alright, that's the spirit", he said. "Shall we?"

 

He gestured towards the door. Castiel grabbed a couple of apples in a backpack and one in his mouth and practically  _ grinned  _ at Dean before they headed out.

 

 

Balthazar wasn't lying about the dump truck - but he didn't mention the balloons. There were balloons. Red, green, blue, violet, orange, yellow balloons, so so many of them, many enough to make it seem like they could fly away with them. It was Up! Dump truck edition. As they approached the vehicle, Charlie waved from truck bed enthusiastically. 

 

"Hey, guys! Climb in!"

 

They let Balthazar climb first and Dean followed, offering Castiel a hand as if he needed one. He was smitten by the gesture anyway and Dean could see the blush tinting his beautiful features as he turned to his friends.

 

"What, not all red balloons?"

 

Chuck let out a laugh.

 

"I knew this would happen! I told you, Charlie."

 

"Yes, you told me", Charlie sighed, rolling her eyes, "yes no to red balloons. We prefer it colored."

 

"Besides, that song encourages dumping your trash out in the open. Castiel, what do we do with our 99 rainbow balloons?" Chuck asked, squinting in the brightness of the sun.

 

"We do what every reasonable person would do. Let's take them to a children's hospital. If there's leftovers, we can share them with some elder citizens, too. That alright with everyone?"

 

Charlie nodded and yelped as the truck set into motion.

 

"Who's driving?" Castiel asked. Chuck got to his feet and leaned against the bed wall. Dean couldn't help himself from following. He leaned his back against the side and soaked in the sun, the balloons, and most of all, his beautiful companion. Could he be called his already? They didn't even have a talk. Did grownups even have talks like that? It'd been too long since Dean was this intimate with anyone, he wasn't accustomed to the etiquette.

 

"You remember Crowley, right?"

 

"What, the guy who sold us paint under the table?"

 

"That's the one. He's got a dump truck but he didn't trust any of us enough to let us drive it."

 

Castiel shrugged. 

 

"Alright. Let's offer him cake as a reward."

 

"Can we go pick up some friends before we head to the party?" Chuck asked, "I'd love to have Samandriel and Anna with us."

 

"Why not. As long as we're there during the speeches", Castiel said and walked over to Dean, "and if it's alright with you."

 

Dean nodded.

 

"Sure."

 

He wanted to thank the man for his consideration, which felt like more than he ever thought he deserved. Instead, he just smiled and hoped it was enough for now.

 

They drove in silence for a while and came to a stop at a neighbourly-looking house. Castiel left to pick up their friends, so Dean gave his phone attention for the first time since last night. There was a message from Sam.

 

"I'm here, it's good", the message stated, "there's so many people and just... It's amazing, Dean. Hope you're alright too - that Friday night, huh? Dad was a little crazy. You aren't just sitting at home, are you? Lemme hear from you, brother."

 

Dean raised his head to greet the balloons again and chuckled. No, he definitely wasn't home. He was feeling giddy, almost high, and without giving it too much thought, he snapped a picture of what he was seeing right now and sent it to Sam.

 

"Hope you'll keep a secret. I think you can check the local news tonight."

 

As he sent the message, a couple of young faces appeared on the bed.

 

"Hello th- oh shit, you're Dean Winchester, right?" the young man said, bursting in a giggle fit immediately, "Wow. I'm a fan- no, I mean, I-"

 

"Samandriel, dearest", Castiel laughed, "give the man some space."

 

The boy nodded, still beaming almost as bright as the day. 

 

"So, Dean, these are my friends Samandriel and Anna. We've helped them in their time of need."

"I'm a son of a republican", Samandriel said and shrugged, his eyes now glazing, "I wanted to be just like you when I grew up. Decent, obedient to your father, but with a firm set of my own opinions."

 

Dean frowned. 

 

"Well, sorry to burst your bubble, Samandriel, but I didn't really have opinions. I just tagged along."

 

"Oh don't start", Anna said with a smile, "Samandriel studies psychology in college. He can go on and on about your subliminal physical messages."

 

"Uh, okay", Dean said, "I guess I'll take it from you, then. Glad you like my opinions."

 

"Has Dean joined your forces?" Anna whispered to Castiel, who was absent-mindedly stroking her hair now. They seemed close, but not in a way that would make Dean feel vulnerable - more like siblings. They hadn't covered Castiel's birth family yet, but maybe he wouldn't introduce her as a friend if that weren't the case?

 

"Dean is staying for the time being", Castiel said then, reaching out to him, "as both a talent and a friend."

 

Dean hummed, but didn't take the hand offered to him - only because Crowley started driving again and he had to focus all his physical strength to stay upright. He was then handed some balloons, which he had to tie firmly on his wrists to prevent escaping. 

 

 

Soon, they entered the smaller streets of town and people started to swarm around their vehicle. Some pretended not to see them but most at least read what the side of the truck said - Dean had to admit, he didn't know what was written on it. It was funny, though - how things finally had changed so drastically so fast; he didn't even care what the sign said, because he knew he was fighting on the right side. Chuck stood next to him now and explained in more detail what they were doing today, who they were rebelling against and what they hoped to achieve. It was fairly simple, and since Castiel was the one holding the megaphone and Dean didn't have to know what to say, he was pleased. 

 

They arrived at the town square and parked their vehicle next to a stage where a congressman was holding a speech. Their appearance caused a commotion and some muttering across the audience, and the spokesman fell silent.

 

"Hello", Castiel yelped to the megaphone, "don't let us bother you. We're just here to listen to what you're going to lie about."

 

"I'd be pleased if you left", the man, who Dean vaguely remembered from some social gathering where he'd been, "or I'll have to call the police."

 

"We'll be silent if you'll be honest."

 

The man shrugged and faced the audience again.

 

"That seems like a fair deal", he said, amused, and the audience laughed. How blind can they be?

 

"Anyway, where was I. I was talking about how letting third party operators invest more on our healthcare would benefit us all. I am certain specific things we all could do-"

 

Castiel  coughed in the megaphone.

 

"Sorry, that's lying."

 

The man chose to ignore them.

 

"...the most important things we could invest in are health care related and nobody can disagree with me there, right? Wherever the financial support should come from, investing in healthcare is in our utmost priority."

 

A round of applause from the audience. The man nodded, content.

 

"And my solution would give taxpayers what they deserve. A freedom to choose what to do with their money!"

 

"That's another lie. There's no worse solution than the productization of health. Health care is a human right and nobody should have to live without it."

 

An awkward silence fell. Castiel descended from the bed so he could tie a knot around a streetlight - he left a dozen balloons there.

 

"I'm leaving you these as a reminder. Every time you see these damn balloons, or anything balloon-related ever again, you will remember how you tried to scam thousands of people into believing killing people for their twelve cents of tax money is a good idea."

 

Castiel didn't even raise his voice. Dean was overwhelmed by his beauty.

 

"Your healthcare productization would first hit the weakest of us. You know what's funny with the weakest? They're not a random group of random people. They're you and me, if we're unlucky. They're our children. They're our families. They're our best friend. They're that girl you want to marry. You don't get to criminalize weak people as a group that comes here and steals your money. They're the ones who have always been here. If you don't limit how third parties act on the health care field, eventually, gradually, their prices will slowly climb - the more professional you want your healthcare to be, the more you pay for it. As a byproduct of your genius idea, financial crimes will increase in both number and severity to cover the costs. I am not saying investing in healthcare is a bad idea - for god's sake, it's one of the most important things to invest on. But we're all accountable for each other and if you leave it to the big companies, trust me - They. Will. Eat. You. Up. You and me, we should be in it for the sake of it - for life. They'd be in it for the money. Please, correct me, sir, if I'm wrong."

 

Instead of answering, the man coughed. There was a silence again. People were shuffling in their seats.

 

"In the long run, there's no better support you can have than the support of large, national corporations with the financial possibilities to keep our services up and running."

 

"Why would they support this town? Why would they support us? What's in it for them?"

 

"Alright, commie!" the man shouted. Dean could see it all the way from here, the sidelines of the town square - there was a vein in his forehead trying to explode right now. "Aren't you the one who believes in those values? Helping out without expecting nothing in return? Why can't you believe this, then?"

 

"So are you saying the companies are communist or that those values are the ones I should believe in?"

 

One more short silence, after which the man, plain and simple, walked out the stage. Castiel climbed back on the dump truck and lifted the megaphone on his lips once more.

 

"We're not here to tell anyone what to think or what to hold dear. We're here to tell you to, please, please think on your own. Consider things. You're smarter than you give yourself credit for. Have a good day, everyone."

 

Crowley let the truck slide away from the town square before the police, who possibly were called anyway, made an appearance. Castiel sighed and looked at Dean, who had long ago raised his hands on his face in awe. Now, he moved them on Castiel's face and just stared at him.

 

They were off to the next place and their work would be done only after each balloon was in a loving home and some more speakers were talked off stage. They'd sooner or later run into those thugs again, too, and they'd return angry. There were tons of things off in their life, and Dean had thrown himself right into it - he no longer had a permanent home, a permanent address, permanent income or support from his father. He could be arrested for what he did any time, any day. He'd possibly never get a job in a good company or graduate or feel the safety of obedience ever again.

 

All that was irrelevant. Now, he was standing where he belonged - holding Castiel, standing by his side, looking into his eyes and -

 

And suddenly, there was only one thing that felt right.

 

"Cas", Dean said, stroking the man's cheeks with his thumbs and leaning in for a short kiss that he hoped would transfer all of the admiration and pride he had for him.

 

He smiled. "Yes, Dean?"

 

Dean winced of the weight of the words, but they escaped him before his say-so.

 

" Thank you.  Thank you  for letting me save myself”,  he sighed, ”I am so grateful. "

 

When Castiel’s smile widened, he wrapped his arms around the man and whispered.

 

”I love you.”

 

 

 


End file.
